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THE JOY OF LIFE 


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BY . 

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EMMA WOLF 

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AUTHOR OF “other THINGS BEING EQUAL,” “A PRODIGAL 

IN LOVE,” ETC. 



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C h}^ G O ,hh3^ H ^ 
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY 




Copyright 

By a. C. McClurg and Co. 

A. D. 1896. 


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PART I. 


And God saw everything that he had inade^ and 
behold — it was very ugly. The7i he created Illusion, 

Algerian Cynic. 



If*' 






THE JOY OF LIFE 


CHAPTER I. 



HE pioneers of Riverton remembered Percival 


Trent well. Indeed, he still remains a tradi- 
tional figure of interest and importance in the annals 
of the town. His importance, however, onlv came to 
light after his death, — by which it may be inferred 
that Percival Trent had been either a genius or a 
miser. And, verily, the first surmise might be in 
part true, if to be a genius is to be possessed of a 
goodly share of uncommon, but very little of what 
the world calls common sense, — cold, hard, honest, 
two-eyed, brutal, workable common sense. Being 
thus equipped and afflicted, the second hypothesis 
proves itself pathetically absurd. 

He was, in brief, a relic of Puritan transcendental- 
ism — the word “ soul ” often found its way upon his 
fine lips or pen. But the dead languages not being 
extensively cultivated at that time in his section of 
the country, the word bore little meaning to his 
constituents. 


8 


the joy of life. 


He was by vocation editor of a weekly periodical 
designed to raise the spiritual side of his fellow- 
townsmen ; but as his fellow-townsmen were busily 
absorbed in the raising of crops and the felling of 
trees, Trent’s harvest was destined to become little 
more than a nominal figure of speech. In later 
years, however, they found that Trent’s influence had 
left a nucleus of intellect in the village, which bore 
gratifying interest. 

He had been bereft of his wife some six years 
before his entry into the prospering village. But it 
was only after he became better known that his vera- 
city as to the cause of her death began to be ques- 
tioned. Then, despite the frequency of his sad 
assertion that she had departed this life through 
bringing the boy Cyril into it, the grinning, unsym- 
pathetic opinion obtained, that, owing to his peculiar 
qualifications as a provider, hers had been, without 
doubt, a case of too much “ considering of the lilies.” 

And the two shabby Trent boys were regarded as 
part of the Trent scheme. That Antony, the elder 
by a half-dozen years, should be the cock of the 
school was the only sequence to be expected of his 
origin. That he should be sullen and taciturn was 
held to be the natural result of untoward worldly cir- 
cumstances. That little golden-haired Cy Trent 
should be delicate both physically and mentally, was 
also a subject for philosophic cogitation and accept- 
ance. Little Cy laughed and cried readily and 
lightly. Antony, the elder, never cried, and laughed 
but seldom and not heartily. He had no playmates 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


9 


because he never played. His companions were his 
books, — good company, in which he moved easily 
without going to the trouble of changing his mood or 
to the expense of changing his clothes. He be- 
longed to the serious-eyed children of the world to 
whom life has never been a laughing-matter. 

The brothers were much together. The women of 
Riverton were wont to watch, with a tug of pity at 
their motherly bosoms, the two shabby, uncared-for 
figures coming and going in their solitary walks, — 
solitary by preference on Antony’s part, never soli- 
tary to Cyril so long as he was within hailing distance 
of his strong, silent elder brother. The women of 
Riverton often prophesied that some day, while thus 
engaged, the book-absorbed Antony would quietly 
step into the rushing river behind the woods, and 
carry, as unconsciously, his backward-looking follower 
with him. 

It was during these early boyish walks that the 
purport of the following catechism might have been 
frequently heard : — 

“Why do you read so much, Tony?” 

“To learn.” 

“Why do you want to learn so much?” 

“ To know.” 

“Will ‘td^know’ make you happy, Tony?” 

“ It will make me great.” 

“ And then will you be happy, Tony?” 

And in the silence the rushing river echoed eagerly, 
“ Happy! happy I happy ! ” — the only answer to 
Cy’s perplexing problem. 


lO THE JOY OF LIFE. 

But a few years developed singular foreign fruit. 
When Antony reached his fifteenth year he became 
his father’s “devil,” voluntarily quitting his books 
with a resolution as decided and peculiar as that 
which had held him to them. He had discovered 
for himself the limits and shape of the cage, and was 
fitting his song to it. The volubility of Percival 
Trent found good soil in his quiet son. And yet he 
was known to pause in the expounding of many a 
theory when the boy Antony interposed his cold, 
investigating gaze between his vision and its unproven 
consummation. 

But little Cy felt no restraint in his presence. 
From habit, which had become instinct, he would 
quit his shouting playmates after school and betake 
himself to the little ill-smelling printing-room where 
his oracle worked. He generally found him, when 
not occupied, listening closely to the talk of the men 
in the office without, or sitting in tense silence, gazing 
into space. And it was — 

“Tony, of what are you thinking?” 

“Of the future.” 

“ What are you going to be when you are a man, 
Tony?” 

“ Rich.^’ 

“ But I mean what are you going to dS ? ” 

“ Make money.” 

“ But what are you going to do to make money?” 

“ Work.” 

“ But lots of fellows work and don’t get rich.” 

“I will.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


I 


“Why?” 

“ Because I will.” 

“ And will you be happy when you are rich, 
Tony? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Father says money is a curse.” 

“ Pooh ! ” 

“ Is n’t it ? Is n’t money a curse, Tony ? ” 

“ Yes — to those who have none.” 

It was about this time, or shortly after, that Percival 
Trent took to his bed. For a while the little paper 
continued to make its cultured appearance every 
Friday evening ; but the fingers of circumstance were 
slowly closing about its delicate throat, and finally 
fate, or the meeting of poor crops and a stroke of 
paralysis, strangled the little thing outright. 

And Antony Trent was chained to his father’s bed- 
side — somewhere in the background of his nature 
lay a stern, compelling, diabolic sense of duty which 
permitted of no other course. Meanwhile time and 
opportunity were slipping past, and the boy knew it. 

“ How long is this going to last ? ” he demanded 
one morning of old Dr. Pennington, as the latter 
stepped on to the porch after a friendly visit to the . 
bed-ridden philosopher. 

“ Do you mean the disease or the man ? ” he 
questioned, looking at the lad with a species of 
professional curiosity. 

“ Either,” his companion responded briefly, rest- 
ing his steely, unboyish eyes upon him. 


2 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ Oh ! Urn — m — m ! Well, my boy, it’s hard to 
judge. It may last a month, it may last a year, it 
may last twenty. It depends altogether upon his 
stamina.” 

And meanwhile I must stay here and nurse him ? ” 
The tone was more menacing than questioning. 

“ Not necessarily, boy,” said the old doctor gruffly, 
moving on. When he reached the gate he called 
back with a short laugh, “ Patience ! Perhaps, with 
his usual consideration, he will make the visitation 
short.” 

So Trent lingered. In this condition, which was 
neither life nor death but which might be called a 
middle state, Percival Trent gave voice to some 
startlingly inconsistent maxims. It may have been 
that still in, yet no longer of the world, he saw face 
to face, that out of the ashes of his life. Grim Truth 
arose at last and confronted him ; it may have been 
that, lying in his small, cold room, where the shabby 
figures of his two sons came and went with insistent, 
purgatorial reminder, he came to understand that 
mundane “ Success ” is a very comfortable experi- 
ence in a mundane existence ; it may have been but 
the summing up of his defeats and failures which 
gave him the Grand Total, but he thus presented it 
to his son as the one tenable Scheme of Life : — 

“My son, God is Power, and Mammon is his 
prophet. Youth dies, hopes die, loves die, religions 
die, — but Mammon’s rule is eternal. 

“ He alone is wise who fills for himself a pot of 
gold. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


13 


The fuller the purse, the more godly the person : 
witness the eulogies on the dead ! And, verily, should 
not the purse-strings second the emotion of the 
heart ? 

“Commerce enters into every undertaking — we 
get only that for which we pay. Everything is mar- 
ketable, noticeably the great motives, — friendship, 
honors, love. 

“ Health, it is true, is unpurchasable ; but will you 
tell me, my son, that the poor man is exempt from 
bodily pain, and whether a wound is not better 
dressed with gold than without? 

“ You may get credit on a good name, and that is 
well ; but you will get discount for cash — that is 
better. 

“ Life is a series of concessions, and the most 
obligatory ones are those which conscience or the 
higher intellect pays to practicality ; for might is 
right, and Sunday is only one day in seven. 

“ Sentiment is the open sesame to all the misery 
and folly to which flesh is heir. A cool heart makes 
a cool head, a cool head carries you to the summit. 

“The best friend and only confidant of a success- 
ful man is himself. But for swift propulsion, a friend 
at court is a wise provision. 

“ My son, life is one of nature’s inevitable acci- 
dents. The strong man is he who lifts himself from 
the debris where he finds himself, and prevails. 

“ Genius is the nepotism of the gods. But for the 
ordinary human cripple, dogged resolution is a her- 
culean crutch.” 


14 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


And Percival Trent, being weary and full of dis- 
illusion, ceased from troubling. But before he turned 
his face to the wall, a softening ray fell upon it, and 
he said, “ My son, after all, I have left you the 
credit of a good name. Look out for it, — and for 
the young-un.” 

Then he fared forth into No Man’s Land. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


5 


CHAPTER II. 

TN the gray of the evening Adam Greathouse sat 
^ alone in his office, just before closing it for the 
day. Morton, the book-keeper, had long since 
gone, and he was disagreeably startled by the sudden 
appearance upon the threshold of a slender, youthful 
figure. 

“ Good-evening,” said a quiet voice from the door- 
way. The small object Greathouse held in his hand 
fell face downward on the desk as he veered around. 

“ What the deuce ” — he muttered angrily ; and 
then dimly making out the face and form, “ Come 
in,” he added less brusquely. 

The lad advanced into the half light, cap in hand. 
“ I am Antony Trent,” he said ; “I — ” 

“ Hello ! You ? Why, your father ’s just been 
buried.” 

“ A half-hour ago — yes.” 

“And what brings you here?” Greathouse ques- 
tioned suspiciously, wondering slightly, and slightly 
angered.. 

“ I am looking for work. I believe your son 
Harry spoke kindly of me to you once.” 

“What the devil has that got to do with it?” 
growled Greathouse threateningly. 


i6 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ I used his name merely as a reference.” 

‘‘You did, did you? Quite sure you didn’t know 
it ’s just a year ago to-day he died, and thought 
you’d have a good thing? Quite sure that isn’t 
the secret of your hurry?” he sneered hotly. 

“ No,” young Trent answered coolly, thoughtfully. 
“ I did not know. Then, I suppose, my visit is well- 
timed. If I had known, though I could not have 
come more quickly, I might have come more 
confidently.” 

Greathouse looked at him doubtfully, as though 
not quite sure he heard aright. “ And now you are 
more confident ? ” he asked with curiosity. 

“Yes. The most successful beggars are those 
who stand around churches and churchyards. 
Charity is a matter of mood.” 

Greathouse felt like kicking him — the answer was 
abnormal, too old, too cold, too cut and dried, too 
inconsistent with the demand. But the honesty gave 
him pause. Besides, through his memory he heard 
a boyish voice crying excitedly, “ Tliere goes Antony 
'1 rent, dad ! Come, speak to him — see if he ’ll 
answer you — he ’s a wonderful fellow ! ” And 
Greathouse, ever indulgent to that boyish voice, had 
cantered alongside to the youth leaning on the bridge 
in the sunlit morning. 

“ This is my father, Antony,” Harry had said, a 
flush on his cheek as he leaned over his saddle ; and 
Antony had looked from the gallant-faced boy to the 
burly horseman beside him, touched his battered 
cap, and said nothing. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


7 


My son is an admirer of yours,” Greathouse had 
remarked pleasantly. He predicts great things for 
you.” 

‘‘ Thank you,” the ragged youth had answered 
coldly, gazing unabashed into the sharp gray eyes of 
Riverton’s most prominent and powerful resident. 
He had stammered and blushed no more on that 
day than he did now. The meeting had ended 
there, Antony having nothing to say, and repelling 
the potentate’s advances by his taciturnity. To- 
night, however, Greathouse’s memory was busy only 
with the eager, boyish voice crying excitedly, There 
goes Antony Trent, dad — he ’s a wonderful fellow ! ” 

The moment, as Antony had said, was not inaus- 
picious, neither was it auspicious. Greathouse hated 
a prig, and he felt like kicking him, but he hated his 
gift of life more than his priggishness. During his 
moment of hesitancy, the boy’s personality told 
curiously. He was tall, overgrown, slightly but 
sinuously built, and carrying his head high. His 
wrists, visible beyond the frayed coat -sleeves, were 
slight and thin, as were his hands ; his face was of a 
dark olive hue, almost delicate of feature, — the eyes 
cold, iron-gray, deep-set beneath the high, narrow 
forehead ; the nose straight, fine, sharp ; the mouth 
neither large nor small, with thin, straight lips, the 
upper one already showing the faint, dark down 
which was the nearest approach Antony Trent ever 
made to beard of any description. His dark, thick 
hair had been clipped short before its propensity to 
wave could manifest itself. His teeth seemed to be 
2 


i8 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


set. He gave the impression of strained concentra- 
tion, as though, if hard pressed, he would suddenly 
snap like a spring. 

“So you want work,’’ said Greathouse roughly. 
“ What kind of work ? ” 

“Any kind.” 

“Well — I have nothing for you.” 

“Are you quite sure?” he urged, the intensity and 
pallor increasing with the words. 

“ Quite. Both the yards and offices are full.” 

Young Trent’s lips pressed closer. “ I relied on 
you,” he breathed more than said. 

“ Why ? ” demanded Greathouse in irritable 
astonishment. 

“ I cannot say. It was a sort of faith, — it had no 
reason.” 

He was not speaking for effect, but he seemed to 
entertain Greathouse, who laughed harshly. 

“Well,” he returned shortly, “come in again. 
Perhaps next time there ’ll be a vacancy.” 

The lad looked directly at him from his hard, cold 
eyes. “ You don’t seem to understand the urgency,” 
he said, and he turned to go. 

Something, the quiet tone, the words, the narrow 
shoulders perhaps, angered the lumber magnate. 

“ Come back here,” he snarled. 

Antony turned. His face cut pale and sharp 
through the gathering dusk. 

“ Did you expect me to make a place for you } ” 
asked Greathouse with brusque sarcasm. 

“Perhaps. Yes. A rich employer can always 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


19 

relieve one of his hands and make room for another 
— if necessary.^’ 

“Oh, if necessary! Where’s the necessity 
here? ” 

The urgency of the case.” The lad was begging, 
only he was doing so in his own curt fashion. 

“I am not an eleemosynary institution,” replied 
Greathouse bluntly. 

Antony smiled ; it was not a reassuring smile, the 
eyes above the white teeth looking haggard and 
dark-ringed. 

“ Once,” he said in the same low, emotionless 
tone, ‘^you said that Harry Greathouse expected 
great things of me. Will you give me a chance? ” 

“ What chance can you get from a lumber-yard?” 
asked Greathouse gruffly. 

‘‘The money chance.” 

“ It would be nothing. You would be a super- 
fluity.” 

“I would make myself a necessity.” 

“ You are brave.” 

“Yes.” 

“ I mean in stating your ambition.” 

“Oh, I am only honest.’’ 

He looked straight at him. Greathouse tilted his 
chair on to its hind legs and kicked at a cuspidore 
with his toe. The insistence of the look fretted 
him. 

“ How old are you ? ” he asked sharply. 

“ Seventeen.” 

“ You seem to have learned a good deal.” 


20 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“Yes ; I have been to school.’’ 

A gleam of light shot from under Greathouse’s 
bushy brows. He, too,.had had dealings with Percival 
Trent. 

^‘Well,” he frowned, shifting in his chair, I don’t 
see ” — he fingered nervously the small object which 
had fallen from his hand upon Antony’s entrance. 
The intruder’s presence hung like a heavy, unac- 
countable burden upon him. He had never felt in 
just that way before on any similar occasion, and 
similar occasions had been numerous. He seemed 
for the nonce unable to rid himself of the incubus. 
His hand twitched at the small dark object, and 
turned it face upward. It was the flashing, happy 
face of a bright-eyed lad. Greathouse rose to his 
feet. 

*‘Come in here to-morrow morning at nine,” he 
said harshly. 

A spot of color sprang into Antony’s pale cheek. 
“Thank you,” he said quietly. The next second, 
feeling he had had his dismissal, he turned, and, with 
a low good-night, disappeared. 

Greathouse stood alone in the twilight, looking 
down. 

“ Morton can give him something to do,” he de- 
cided, with a shrug of impatience. The lines deep- 
ened upon his forehead. He drew his hand across 
it and groaned. Then, with a hasty movement, he 
swept the miniature into a drawer, picked up his hat, 
and walked out into the darkening streets. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


21 


CHAPTER III. 

'^HE French are great philosophers — with them 
^ nothing “ happens,” it only “ arrives.” 

According to which philologic summary, Antony 
Trent’s success arrived on the day Adam Greathouse, 
forced to the wall by disease and excesses, retired 
from the active management of his affairs, and made 
him, Trent, his private secretary and representative. 

Greathouse’s associates heard of the change with 
veteran composure. “ Greathouse has made another 
good investment,” they said, and awaited develop- 
ments. 

As for the other portion, the major portion of the 
little world which knew Antony Trent, the laboring, 
struggling, envious, ambitious, younger portion to 
which he rightly belonged, — the majority screwed their 
lips into shape and gave vent to a prolonged whistle 
of astonishment first, and bitterness, or jealousy, or 
what not afterward. Some of them said, “Luck! ” 
a few said, “Will;” some one said, “Capability;” 
and the clergyman said “Honesty.” At which last, 
the philosophers laughed. 

But the fact remained that, in the long. run, he was 
successful. 

Yes. But consider the dreary long run. 


22 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


When Antony Trent began his novitiate in the 
office of the great lumber-yard, Morton, the old 
book-keeper, accepted his presence as a busy man 
does a fifth wheel, and Greathouse, after the first few 
days, hated him heartily, wholly, and unconditionally, 
— hated him, first and primarily, because he inter- 
fered with the course of selfish absorption which he 
had mapped out for himself ; hated him because he 
was alive, and strong, and alert while another lay 
cold, impotent, and inconsequent under the merci- 
less sod, — a wild passion finding its origin only in 
the coincidence of the lad’s entrance into his life on 
a day when the remembrance of the other’s exit had 
been bitterly keen ; hated him with a strange 
jealousy from post to finish, yet retained him, held 
by a repellent though fascinating bond. 

Morton grudgingly tolerated his assistance ; Great- 
house, barely civil, offered him the tip of his little 
finger, his head turned aside. With these frail props, 
Trent began to climb, a cold, indomitable persistence 
being the only strength which gave him breathing 
power in this antagonistic atmosphere. With a 
species of fanatic force he steeled his senses and held 
on. Greathouse felt his weight. It was this which 
irritated him. The magnetism of his person and 
being were irresistible. Time and again, while bend- 
ing over a letter, he found himself thinking of the 
quiet young personality behind him, and between 
him and his paper would interpose the fine, pur- 
poseful head, the cool, critical eyes. Time and 
again, after the heat and turmoil of the day, in the 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


23 


privacy of his home, he found himself lingering over 
certain curt sentences, unsolicited and unanswered 
for the most part, which rang over and over in his 
memory with telling force. Scarcely aware of the 
change, as time passed, Greathouse became accus- 
tomed to look for or listen to Antony Trent’s opinions 
and valuations. Unconsciously he held out another 
finger. The magnet was doing good work. 

Greathouse hated him for being alive, but would 
have missed him sharply had he lost him. Besides, 
he knew that, in an emergency, with a choice among 
twoscore employees, he would have trusted his all 
to Antony Trent as to a safety vault. “ His damned 
honesty,” as Greathouse styled it to himself with his 
usual profanity, seemed to protrude like a peg for 
others to hang their faith upon. And, strange to 
say, Greathouse hated him again for this very cold, 
indubitable honesty. If once he had shown a trace 
of weakness, Greathouse’s arm would have been flung 
about him, and he would have defied the world for 
him. A hair, sometimes, thus separates the two 
extremes of passion. But Antony Trent never 
showed any weakness ; and if Greathouse did him 
justice as his employer, that is, paid him according 
to his worth, it was because Greathouse himself was 
a just man, and, above all, because, curious as the 
situation may seem, he wished to stand clear in this 
young interloper’s estimation. 

But neither time, nor Antony, nor the town was 
standing still. Railroad and harbor commissioners 
had discovered the importance of Riverton’s situation. 


24 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


and were pushing toward it. Factories and mills 
and steam-vessels began to fill the water-front with 
trafficking smoke, which, spreading toward the homes, 
pushed residence property westward to the confines 
of the woods, making of Riverton a unique combina- 
tion of town and village, or, as Antony Trent ex- 
pressed it, “ A City Front with a Country Back.’’ 
Where the little wooden houses had formerly stood, 
rose dignified business blocks of substantial build. 
Representatives of eastern and foreign syndicates 
came and went, adding bustle and klat to the once 
drowsy little village, now a teeming, miniature 
Manchester. 

In the midst of all this newness and venture Great- 
house’s old lumber-yard stretched to the old wharf, 
an ineffaceable landmark. With a phase of super- 
stition he had clung to the site as though all his 
prosperity depended upon it, although numerous 
incongruous buildings pressed about him. The post- 
office officials and several manufacturers had offered 
him generous prices for the property ; but Greathouse 
stuck on like a barnacle. Close beside him, some- 
what elevated, rose his weather-beaten, quondam 
handsome residence, and neither a sense of the fitness 
nor the practicality of the suggestion could move him 
an inch in his dogged determination to keep it “right 
there.” It was here his wife and son had died. 

His fellow-townsmen accepted his whim with a 
smile. Greathouse could afford whims. In the day 
of Riverton’s maturity he was known as the “ Octo- 
pus.” He was supposed to “ own ” the farmers for 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


25 


miles around ; the long line of warehouses along the 
front, bursting with grain, belonged to Greathouse, 
and proved the foundation of the supposition ; back 
westward, through the vast wooded country, the 
loggers and logging camps were known to be “ Great- 
house’s ” ; the snug little opera-house, the Boys’ 
Academy on the hill, “ the Greathouse building ” 
with its commodious offices and stores, the trolley 
line extending from station-end to residence avenue, 
— all bore evidence of his power and wealth. And 
back of all this enterprise and aggrandizement — 
although no one but Adam Greathouse knew — 
worked the strong business acumen and far-sighted- 
ness of Antony Trent, son of Percival Trent, the 
despised visionary and rhetorician. 

Taken on toleration, he had risen by inevitable 
steps from office-boy to assistant book-keeper, thence 
to amanuensis, to shipping-clerk, to contractor. 
There he seemed to stand. “ Send Antony Trent to 
me : ” such frequent, curt messages and as curt inter- 
views were the only outward sign of his hold in Great- 
house’s estimation. But Antony Trent knew that 
from first to last his sagacity had been appreciated, if 
grudgingly ; knew that he would never join the band 
of starved geniuses so long as Adam Greathouse sat 
at the head and served from the great soup-pot. 

That Trent, as he grew to manhood, was content 
to remain in this obscure position may seem incom- 
patible with his ruling ambition. But the position 
was only obviously obscure. He felt his importance ; 
not only did he feel it with assurance, but he had 


26 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


objective proof of it in a steadily mounting salary. 
Beyond which, he could read not only the signs of 
the times but also of his master, — knew that, in 
addition to his life-love of financiering, old age and 
disease were getting the better of him, and would 
finally, but inevitably, carry him from the scene of 
activity. Hence the necessity of an understudy; 
hence the understudy’s patience. Trent awaited 
the event. When it occurred, or “ arrived,’’ Antony 
Trent was in his thirty-fourth year. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


27 


CHAPTER IV. 

A ND among the general growth of things, Cyril 
Trent had come to manhood. 

From a biographer’s point of view his boyhood 
had been without incident or interest. He had sim- 
ply gone to school.’’ The life and development, 
in adolescence, of a boy is intangible and unappre- 
ciable to all but the boy himself, and not always to 
him. Though his heart may have its turning-points, 
he seldom recognizes them. Memory, however, is a 
great romance builder ; and in after years the women 
of Riverton recalled little signs and presciences 
pointing to the after man. That he had been a 
beautiful child, all were agreed. Through the ugliest 
externals of poverty the child and growing boy’s 
beauty had shone out oddly, and proven a good 
friend. 

Miss Tynan, the veteran school-mistress, told 
Barbara Gerrish once that she remembered how, one 
morning during her mentorship, the lad had come in 
late, and, upon her demanding an explanation, he 
had turned his sunny smile upon her and answered 
in unquestioning simplicity, — 

“I had to stop and listen to the peace. Miss 
Tynan.” Upon which, through some indefinable 
agency, the reprimand had remained unuttered. 


28 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


The story of his one night’s incarceration in the 
town-jail also became part of history — afterward. It 
had resulted from a common enough scene. Some 
mischievous school-boys had surrounded an inoffen- 
sive, or, rather, unoffending Chinese, and were plying 
him with ridicule and stones when young Cyril Trent, 
hatless, coatless, dashed in upon the biggest rowdy, 
and gave him so violent a drubbing and massaging 
that the authorities were called, and the golden-haired 
Quixote was borne to justice. He was released the 
next morning, with a warning against any further 
display of brutality. 

“ Sir,” said the fifteen-year-old boy, looking steadily 
into Constable Hutchins’ face, ‘‘ among brutes I shall 
always be a brute.” “ Well, young man,” returned 
Hutchins with a laugh, ‘^who made you my deputy?” 

The hour,” replied Cyril, and went his way. 

Probably the most characteristic anecdote was told 
by Widow Black, to many willing ears. “ Land o’ 
glory,” she would say, raising her hands in protesting 
ardor, “ when I see him coming barefoot inter that 
there back-yard with something under his arm, I just 
stood there and said, ‘ Cyril Trent,’ I says, ^ what ’ve 
you been a-doing now? Where’s your shoes?’ 
And he just set down on the step and took that 
accordeen on his knee and begun playing like an 
angel — the kind of music that gives you a pain in 
your chest and chills and fever up your back, you 
know, — and when he finished he looked up at me and 
says he, ' Mrs. Black, don’t you think it was a good 
summer trade?’ And I says, 'Cyril Trent,’ I says, 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


29 


* never mind what I think. What will your brother 
say about it, do you think ? ’ ^ Wait till he hears me 

play,’ he answers quiet like.” But history does not 
record in what manner Antony Trent paid the piper. 

Unlike his brother Antony, he made no brilliant 
record at school. Mathematics was his stumbling 
block, — it required too much concentration of the 
faculties, and Cyril’s faculties were sad nomads. 
The command to “wake up ” and “apply yourself” 
rang in his ears continually. He was called 
“dreamer,” “idler,” “good-for-nothing,” accord- 
ing to his instructor’s insight or patience. It was 
only at odd moments, when a poem was to be read 
or recited, an essay written, a battle to be sum- 
marized, a hero eulogized, a traitor anathematized, 
that he rose curiously to the occasion, and, despite 
his record, forced the observation that there might be 
“ something in him after all.” 

His brother Antony, meanwhile, supplied him with 
food, clothes, and shelter, — meager, and of the poor- 
est sort, but Antony himself had no better. Antony 
bore his privations stoically ; Cyril never felt he was 
bearing privations. He was singularly happy and 
heart-free, until came the day when his brother 
thought it time to ring the change. He had been 
delicate as a child, and allowed great latitude ; but 
from his fourteenth year his health and strength took 
superb strides forward. At sixteen his shoulders far 
outstood Antony’s slender build, and though his 
fair skin was never ruddy, its marble firmness and 
whiteness bespoke unmistakable health. 


30 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


The fact of his physical redemption being borne in 
upon Antony’s perceptions, he decided to treat the 
situation summarily. His method was of the sledge- 
hammer variety, no circumlocution, strong, quick 
done. A memorable scene ensued — memorable to 
Cyril, as was every other fateful encounter he ever 
had with his brother. 

It was a bitter night, and after their frugal meal in 
Widow Black’s kitchen, the brothers had ascended 
to the small, cold room which was their common 
sleeping-apartment. Antony lit the lamp and low- 
ered the blind in his usual active, assertive manner, 
while Cyril, pulling his chair up to the table, drew 
out his school-books. They had no fire, and they 
hunched themselves about the lamp. 

Apparently they were not intimate, except in 
their undiscursiveness, which is often, unwittingly, the 
most subtle medium of intimacy. Across the long 
years of silence during which these two had lived so 
closely together, an Indefinable, familiar atmosphere 
had developed, which double the same years of dis- 
course could not have acquired. That sense of soul, 
recognition, the feeling of being “ at home,” free, 
unhampered, was theirs in all its closeness, distance, 
warmth, indifference. 

The lamp stood between them on the uncovered 
pine table, which was strewn with books. The boy 
rested his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. 
His thoughts were — where ? Cyril himself could not 
have answered. His was not an orderly mind. A 
point-blank question generally stunned him. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


31 


Antony looked across at him ; noted the brooding 
brow, the boyish beauty of the face, and a swift 
frown flitted across his dark countenance. Pie 
closed his own book promptly, keeping his forefinger 
between its battered pages. 

“ Cyril,” he said sharply. 

The boy started up. '^Oh,” he cried, with a 
laugh, how you startled me, Tony ! What d’ you 
want?” 

I want to know what you are going to do for 
yourself.” 

“ Do for myself? ” 

“Yes. You are sixteen years old. You are old 
enough and strong enough now to shift for yourself. 
When are you going to start in to earn a living? ” 

A strange, glowing flush overspread the warm 
whiteness of the lad’s face ; his lips trembled with 
unspoken words ; he looked half-affrightedly, half- 
shy ly at his brother. 

“I — I had not thought,” he faltered. 

“ What ! At your age ? Where is your sense 
of independence? You are strong now. I can’t 
divide with you always.” 

The glowing flush burned in painfully. “ I know,” 
he answered in a low voice, after a pause. 

“Well, what do you purpose doing?” 

The boy’s tense fingers rasped the leaves of the 
book nervously. “ I don’t know,” he answered with 
effort ; “ you say, Antony.” 

I'he appeal was characteristic. He had never 
outgrown his first leading-strings. 


32 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Decide for yourself. I should think at sixteen — 
you — a boy in your position — would have some 
leaning — some ambition — some desire toward 
earning a livelihood.” 

The painful flush had receded, an intense pallor 
succeeding it ; something swayed in his sight ; he 
flung his arms outward, his head sank upon the table, 
he burst into wild sobbing. It was Antony’s first 
premonition of a stubborn enemy. His nostril quiv- 
ered, his lips set firmly ; he was intolerant of emo- 
tional weakness. 

“ Nonsense,’’ he said harshly. “ Stop that.” 

The sobbing subsided pitifully, but he did not raise 
his head ; his shoulders were quivering convulsively. 

“ Answer me,” said Antony, sternly. What are 
you crying about? Look up.” 

The boy finally raised his head, essayed to speak, 
but succeeded dismally. 

“ Well? Brace up. Come, be a man. Of what 
have you been thinking, Cy, — or is your future a 
blank? ” 

“ You see,” came the boy’s low, passionate re- 
sponse, his wet lashes resting upon his cheek, ‘‘ I 
have thought about it. I know all you have done for 
me, Tony, but — but — ” 

“ Go on. Let the past alone. That is my afiair. 
It doesn’t concern you.” 

It does concern me, — it will always concern me,” 
he retorted hotly. ‘‘ But I can’t help it. I wish it 
were different. I wish I were different. But I am 
what I am.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 33 

“ Of what had you thought — practically ? ” ob- 
served Antony, curtly. 

‘‘I — no, no — I can’t speak about it.” 

Why not?” 

“ Because — I — you — I am afraid of your 
sneer, Antony.” 

“ Indeed ! ” sneered Antony. He might have 
added to his contemptuous exclamation, but meeting 
the other’s pleading, rebellious eyes, he said more 
gently, thougli with some impatience : “ What folly 
this is ! Have you anything to say, or not? Is 
there anything at all for which you think yourself 
particularly fit? If so, out with it.” 

I have thought,” stammered Cyril, his blue-gray 
eyes flashing for a moment into the other’s, I have 
thought — I might be able to write — some day.” 

The poor little secret was out, trembling and 
shrinking in the face of the world : only the bearer 
knows the agony of such a birth. Cyril looked 
hungrily up to see how his child was received. 

Antony’s face set darkly. Write.?” he echoed 
vaguely. “What do you mean by that? Write 
what?” 

“ Books — poetry.” 

A cold, disagreeable thought thrust itself into 
Antony’s consciousness, and seemed to perch and 
settle down upon his shoulders like a bird of ill omen. 

“ Er — have you any basis for such a pre — 
hope?” he asked coldly. 

“ I have tried — things have come to me — I 
write them.” 


3 


34 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Anything you might show ? 

“ Nothing much. A — a poem or two — verses, I 
mean — not poetry, of course.” He hesitated, with 
all a novice’s susceptibility to ridicule. 

Let me see.” 

Cyril fingered the book under his hand feverishly. 
At length he drew forth a scrap of paper. 

“ Here,” he said with a show of bravery, handing 
it over, “ here is something.” 

Antony took the paper from him with some 
curiosity, and read : 

“ Hush 1 Move not ! Listen 1 
From sky, from sea, from sod, 

Swingeth, singeth, swayeth, 

Godl God! God!” 

A sickening hush held the boy. He had given, of 
course, his masterpiece, and he awaited the oracle’s 
verdict in agony. Antony was slow to answer; in 
truth, he laid the paper down without answering. 
He forbore to smile ; his face was altogether 
expressionless. 

“ Oh,” Cyril burst forth with white lips, it is 
nothing, I know. Don’t say anything — please, 
Antony. I know. Give it to me. There, there, 
there ! ” He tore it into tiny shreds, flinging the 
scraps upon the floor. 

Antony looked on in quiet surprise. How foolish 
you are,” he said. ‘‘ I would advise you to go more 
slowly. It pays better, you will find. I always keep 
a reserve fund, — of everything. I am no judge of 
your poetry, Cy. It sounds merely exclamatory to 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


35 


me, though there may be some latent force in it. 
Of one thing, however, I can assure you : there is 
no — ” 

I told you it was all wrong,” cried Cyril. I 
know it is simple, childish, crude ; but if you say 
there is no soul in it, you know nothing about it, and 
that is all there is to it.” 

“ I was about to say,” resumed Antony, quietly, 
“ that there is no money in it. That, I think, was 
the point in question. Wasn’t it?” 

‘‘Was it?” repeated Cyril, blankly. “I don’t 
know. Of what were we speaking?” 

“ Of earning a living. You know, or at least you 
ought to know, that poetry and money do not go 
hand in hand.” 

“Not at first,” ventured the boy, bravely; “but 
afterward — ” 

“ And meanwhile ? ” cut in Antony, sharply. 

The boy drew in a long breath. “ I could not 
breathe in — in a store,” he muttered. 

“ Beggars cannot be choosers,” suggested Antony, 
with gruff triteness. 

“Yes,” Cyril flashed back, “they can — They 
need not breathe at all.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” said Antony, contemptuously. He 
opened his book again and began to read. Silence 
fell between them, and was unbroken until the lamp 
began to splutter, when Antony arose and announced 
his intention of going to bed. The young boy made 
no comment ; he kept his eyes fastened upon his 
book, his mouth set in the same strained line of pain. 


36 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


The lamp went out. Antony was either quiet or 
sleeping. The cold, white moonlight looked in 
beneath the blind and added to the chill of the room. 
Cyril sat hunched at the table, his head between his 
hands. A whole town of castles had been pillaged, 
royal booty taken, the fair towers left a heap of 
ruins. And the lord of it all sat in the midst, still 
and hopeless. The griefs of youth ! — so much 
deeper than older griefs, knowing nothing of the 
great Peace-maker, Time. He had lived in his hope ; 
the present had been but the necessary interval before 
the great note could be struck. He had lived in the 
future, — the present had been but an ecstasy look- 
ing to that end. Cold, hunger, privations ? He had 
known none of them with that glory ablaze in the 
distance. But now it was all quenched, beaten out, 
quite extinguished by the one word of him who 
had ever been his master. He had not the strength 
to withstand hostility from that quarter. He had 
always counted upon Antony’s co-operation ; with 
Antony for an abetter he had felt able to move 
mountains. Imagination had even painted its tender 
scene of confessional : Antony’s reluctance to listen, 
his skepticism, his little start of recognition, his little 
flush of pleasure, perhaps pride ! his advice to go 
on, to continue resolutely, to live only for that 
future, to make good the gift of nature, and to win 
his spurs. And now — without him for a goad he 
was hopeless, helpless. Without his support, the 
weaker nature fell. He sat rigid, stranded, while the 
cold, sick hours passed. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


37 


Toward morning, Antony, waking, put out his 
hand, and finding the place vacant beside him, he 
sat up in bed. The moon had vanished, and the 
room was densely black. 

“ Cyril,” he called quickly. 

“ Yes,” came the faint response. 

“ What are you doing there ? Why are n’t you in 
bed?” 

He received no answer. 

Come here,” he said impatiently. 

The boy did not move. 

Antony leaned forward. “ I want to speak to you, 
Cyril,” he said, with slow precision. “ Will you be 
kind enough to listen ? ” 

I am listening, Antony,” was the stifled reply. 

^^Well, then, I have been thinking about you and 
your capabilities. Perhaps your instincts are right ; 
we are not all turned out after the same mould, — 
you can’t make a draught-horse out of a race-horse, 
or vice-versa. A commercial career might be impos- 
sible to you, — that is, a successful commercial 
career ; it might be mere waste of time, a fiasco 
probably. My decision is taken upon that point. 
I believe you might make a success in a more 
scholarly field. Are you listening ? ” 

“Yes, Antony.” 

“ In something professional. For that, you would 
need education. There would be whole years during 
which you would not earn a cent. Well, a successful 
professional man reaps the interest of his non-pro- 
ductive years afterward, and — ” 


38 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“Meanwhile?” interposed Cyril, hoarsely. 

“ Meanwhile,” proceeded Antony, calmly, “ I will 
help you. If you have anything sterling, worth 
cultivating, it will show itself ; if you care to work 
for it I will help you — somewhat. I will see that 
your immediate material wants are satisfied, and — 
students have a way of helping themselves. You 
may regard this as a loan, if you wish. Some day 
you may be able to pay it back.” 

The words sounded chill, yet strong as iron. Cyril 
shivered, but clutched blindly at them. 

“Thank you, Antony,” he said, drawing in an icy 
breath. “ But it is too much ; I may not succeed, 
— and beggars cannot be choosers.” 

“ As you will. The offer stands : take it or 
leave it, — it is at your disposal. Well? ” 

“ Now?” 

“ Certainly. Don’t gamble with time, Cyril. 
When you see a fact, take it. We can’t afford to 
lose anything. Well? ” 

“ Thank you, Tony,” he replied, frightened into 
desperation. “ But I can never pay it back.” 

“ You may. Who knows ? Well, it is decided 
now. You had better get into bed.” 

So, with a trifle more of stability, a trifle more of the 
iron of purpose, Cyril Trent continued to go to school. 
He never stopped now “ to listen to the peace,” or to 
fight the cause of the oppressed. Antony expected 
something — he dared not disappoint him. That 
thought was the god in the machine. Before long 
he had outstripped the limits of the village schooling, 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


39 


and with Antony’s slender assistance and a collec- 
tion of his father’s priceless old books, he removed 
to the metropolis, in order to prepare himself for the 
University. He worked at a hard strain. He 
came out brilliantly in the classics and philosophy. 
One (and later, others) of the students of more 
favored fortunes, noticing his talents and his shabby 
coat, begged for an exchange of assistance. On the 
instant the hot blood sprang into Cyril’s cheek — 
take pay for giving of his surplus ! But the next 
moment the stern, supercilious frown of his brother 
flashed before him, and, flushing now at his own 
weakness, he struck the bargain. Nobody ’s going 
to give you anything,” he had often heard Antony 
say. Whatever you get is for value received or to 
be received.” Upon this basis, Cyril managed to 
keep his balance, and his strong, hungry young body 
in order. 

He hob-nobbed with one or two of the professors 
at the University, — or, rather, the professors hob- 
nobbed with him. There was something attractive 
and refreshing in the simplicity of this young man, — 
working his way, using his corporal powers, if nothing 
else offered, in order to sit under the tutelage of 
these acknowledged thinkers; they respected him 
for the sunny candor of his struggle, independently 
of his decidedly original bent of mind. That Cyril 
Trent would win his Ph. D. went without saying. 
What he would do with it was another question, — 
one which, in his senior year, Cyril himself seemed 
reluctant to answer. 


40 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


In the field of ethics are many mansions/’ he 
wrote once to Antony. “ With an aptitude for all, 
it is difficult to select the one in which one would 
feel most at home, and therefore at his best.” 

Antony received this vague information with a 
slight distension of the nostrils and a not over-pleasant 
smile of the lips. Dilettanteism in whatever direction 
was distasteful to him. He aimed at solidity, — solid- 
ity of purpose and of act. He was not without im- 
agination — no healthy man is. There is always some 
absorbing thing to be reached further on, whether it 
be a fortune, a fame, a horse, a toilet, a love, or a 
dinner, — little pocket batteries to keep off torpid- 
ity. And Antony Trent could dream, — but only 
while acting. He never juggled with the future. 
The philosophy of inactive waiting was unknown 
to him. 

“ You have to keep moving if you want to catch 
your train,” he argued. He believed that you burst 
upon the scene, not the scene upon you. He loved 
life for the struggle’s sake, — the struggle of clever- 
ness with circumstance ; the “ I am ! ” of the 
man against the “ we are ! ” of the many. To have 
one goal and to strive toward it ; to feel one’s strength 
and to use it athletically ; to know no faltering and 
no wearying, and to achieve at last, — this was 
Antony Trent’s religion, his life present, his life to 
come. The haven of his works was his heaven, and 
he was walking straight toward it. He could not 
sympathize with Cyril’s vagaries. 

Therefore, a day or two before commencement- 


THE JOY OF IIEE. 


41 


day, he was astounded by the receipt of the following 
communication : — 

My dear Antony, — I have taken the plunge,— 
that is, the preliminary one. I have not waited for 
your verbal approval, because I felt convinced of it in 
advance, — in fact, am acting almost entirely upon that 
assumption. You will, I think, link arms with me when 
you hear of the “ sanity ” of the step. I am about to 
enter the employ of the great booksellers, “ Howard and 
Mavin,” in the capacity of correspondent, — a position 
created for me and offered by my classmate, young 
Bradbury Mavin. His father has become incapacitated; 
Howard, you know, died last year, and Mavin, senior, 
has elected to use his son as his business successor. 
The latter has acquired an unconquerable idea that with 
my assistance and judgment he can “ get along,” and 
not otherwise. 

Do not imagine, I pray, that I am about to sacrifice 
myself on the shrine of friendship. I have not gone 
through college entirely for the luxury of the thing. I 
have an aspiration (note the definite article), but I have 
come to Saint Simon’s conclusion, — that one must own 
his own skiff before he set sail for the stars ; balloon 
travel has not yet been perfected, and experiments are 
expensive. 

The salary, one hundred dollars per month, will ad- 
vance in ratio to my business value. I shall endeavor 
to fill a big bill. Forgive my not unfolding whither 
this materialism tends. I am in deadly earnest about 
my future — my life-work — and any disapproval upon 
your part would only cause estrangement of feeling, 
which is unnecessary now, if ever. Our aims and inter- 
pretations of life take opposite directions. That is 
written. What you regard as an end is to me but a 


42 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


means to an end. I may never reach it But mean- 
while we are travelling the same road, and let us love 
each other without further thought. 

Send me your benediction to add to the great debt of 
Your “young-un ” as ever, 

Cyril Trent. 

Antony sent his benediction. 

The years passed, and meanwhile the brothers 
were travelling the same road. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

TN Riverton, the architects have always made a 
^ feature of porches. Even as far back as the 
sixties, when Adam Greathouse’s “big house/^ as it 
was then designated, was built, the depth of the 
porch had been half that of the house, thus, prob- 
ably, setting the fashion for subsequent dwellings. 
Had it not been for their porches, the history of 
many a Rivertonian might have proven different, — 
environment taking such a leading part in the play 
of life. It was here the children studied, sewing 
was done, tea was drunk, scandals were hatched, 
politics discussed, romances developed, tragedies 
concluded. They were all well protected with 
awnings or lattices against sun and wind, and some 
of the latest improvements showed artful nooks and 
vanishing corners where much could be done and 
said sub rosa. 

Greathouse’s was only wide and straight and 
long. The view was good, facing the river, a blue 
strip of which showed through the glossy branches 
of the great magnolia tree, another garden institu- 
tion dating from primitive Riverton. Had the situa- 
tion been other, the young girl seated there in the 
long-chair in the distressing August heat might have 


44 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


found some comfort in being out of doors. But the 
sense of ease was totally spoiled by the neighboring 
tooting of steam, the whir and flap of wheels, the 
buzz of saws, the distant shouting of men, the creak- 
ing of heavy trucks, and all the noises attendant upon 
the compact center of a busy little manufacturing town. 

The young girl’s book had fallen unheeded to the 
floor, and her eyes had closed languorously. Her 
pretty face wore an air of petulance, as though its 
owner rebelled against the relentless tyranny of the 
excessive heat. 

The click of the garden-gate and a brisk step up 
the walk caused her brown eyes to open a trifle 
wider, and turned her head interestedly in the direc- 
tion of the sound. A tall, slight man approached, 
looking disconcertingly cool, though dressed in con- 
ventional dark clothes with glimpses of conventional 
white linen. He carried in his hand a small roll of 
papers, which probably added to his air of alertness. 
As he reached the steps leading to the veranda, he 
noticed the girl, who had risen to a sitting posture ; 
and, mounting the few steps, he raised his hat, paus- 
ing upon the landing. 

The girl arose and advanced a pace. Did you 
wish to see my father? ” she asked, wide awake now, 
and with some diffidence. 

He turned directly to her. ^‘Yes,” he replied. 
“ Miss Greathouse?” He stood in courteous ques- 
tioning, his hat still in his hand. 

She bowed slightly and tentatively. 

‘‘My name is Trent,” he continued, “Antony 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


45 

Trent. I wish to see your father at once, if you will 
let him know.’^ 

“ Oh, you can’t,” she replied lightly, looking into 
his dark face with girlish frankness. He does not 
wish to be disturbed this afternoon. His foot has 
been troubling him, and he has just fallen asleep.” 

“ Oh,” acquiesced Trent, thoughtfully. Then, 
with a smile through which his strong, even white 
teeth flashed for a second, “ You are aware of my 
connection with your father ? ” There was no pre- 
sumption ; yet a faint hint of indulgence, as of man- 
hood slightly bending to extreme youth, spoke in his 
voice. 

“ His secretary, are you not ? ” 

“ Yes. Pardon my insistence, but the papers I 
have brought require his instant examination and 
signature.” 

But my father is asleep,” she reiterated, with 
ruffled dignity and quaint surprise. 

The papers are important,” he said, drawing out 
his w'atch with quick business formality and studying 
the hands, “and Mr. Greathouse must sign them 
within ten or twelve minutes in order to have them 
reach the post. Will you kindly arrange that I may 
speak to him ? ” 

Miss Greathouse raised her eyebrows in resigna- 
tion. “ It seems to be a matter of life or death,” 
she remarked with youthful flippancy, as she half 
turned away. 

“ No,” he returned, with another brief smile, “ only 
of several thousand dollars. ” 


46 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


“ Oh !” She appeared slightly confused. At the 
door she turned and looked back at him. “ Won’t 
you sit down ? she asked. 

Trent bowed but remained standing, his eyes fol- 
lowing her girlish figure until she had disappeared. 

Objectively, he had transferred his attention to the 
frontispiece of the novel which he had picked up 
from the floor. Subjectively, an old nursery tale 
was running amusedly through his thoughts : — 

“ And the great merchant said, ‘ Little boy, what 
are you doing ? ’ And the boy said, ^ Picking up pins.’ 
And the merchant said, ‘ Little boy, you are a good 
little boy.’ And he called him in and gave him a 
place in his house, and afterwards he married the 
merchant’s daughter, and when the merchant died 
he was very rich.” The association of ideas was 
sufficiently clear. They fitted to a nicety. In fact, 
he believed he had found the missing link necessary 
to the forging of his great chain. And although 
Trent smiled grimly at the literal application of the 
picking up of pins to his case, the parallel denoue- 
ment seemed to him a practicable enough working 
proposition. 

He had returned only a few days previously from 
a business trip to Central America. He had heard 
that Helen Greathouse had dropped down unex- 
pectedly upon her father during a seminary vacation, 
but he had given the knowledge scarcely a thought. 
The mere sight of her now was responsible for his 
sudden inspiration. It assumed the aspect of a 
crown to his ambition. She was still a school-girl, 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


47 


would not graduate for another semester from her 
distant school. But she was Adam Greathouse’s 
sole heiress, and rumor had it that the indifference 
with which he had treated her during her childhood 
and girlhood, sending her to an aunt, and washing 
his hands of all responsibility save the required one 
of paying her bills, had given place to a lively inter- 
est, and, upon her graduation, she was to take up 
her life again with him in the scene of her birth. 

Trent’s gray eyes were unsmiling and distant as 
usual when a servant appeared and showed him into 
Greathouse’s presence. 

“ Good-afternoon,” he said, making out the figure 
on the lounge in the dim light, and advancing 
toward it. 

Greathouse mumbled a rejoinder. 

“ I have brought that contract with Delamere for 
you to sign,” said Trent, standing beside the table 
which was drawn up before the couch. 

“ Why did n’t you sign yourself? ” 

“Because you seemed to hesitate over all the 
terms. It gives Delamere the option of selling at 
his own discretion.” 

“ And you think that would be advisable ? ” 

“ Yes. He knows the pulse of the market. I 
would trust him sooner than I would Belcher, who is 
willing to stand at 92. Delamere will not subscribe 
to any restriction, but he will do the best with it that 
can be done. I am convinced of that.” 

“ Well, why did n’t you sign then?” He gave a 
low groan, as he attempted to sit up. 


48 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Can I help you ? ” Trent asked at once, though 
he made no movement. 

Greathouse did not answer, and the next instant 
Antony had drawn nearer, placed his arm beneath 
the heavy shoulders, and raised the burly figure to a 
sitting position. Greathouse picked up a pen and 
scratched his name to the document without reading 
it. Trent took it up and replaced it in the envelope. 

^‘Sit down a minute,” said the old man, gruffly, as 
Antony picked up his hat. 

“Thank you, no. I must drop this at once.” 

“ I can send the boy.” 

“ No. I have to make remittances to the loggers 
up Brierwood Gulch. Can I help you to lie down 
again?” He put down his hat, and Greathouse, 
yielding, allowed himself to be resettled in his former 
position. 

“You have a good arm,” he said brusquely. 
“ Good staying-power. Er — ” a flood of dark 
color overspread his purple visage. He was strug- 
gling between a sense of loneliness and an old-time 
intolerance, a sense of yearning and one of disfavor. 
“ Come in again, Trent,” he said laconically, at 
length. Trent thanked him and went off. ' 

Greathouse, left to himself, lay silent, his hands 
clasped over his head. He was conscious of a pecu- 
liar feeling, one which of late had always accosted 
him whenever Antony Trent left his presence, but to 
which he had never before succumbed in the slight- 
est degree. 

The old sense of resentment with which he had 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


49 


regarded him as a boy had suffered little change 
during the many years in which he had watched him 
develop to power and manhood. At least Great- 
house would suffer no recognized change. “What 
is Antony Trent to me? ” he would repeat angrily to 
himself, fiercely encouraging the old sore feeling. 
Yet there was a subtle difference. For Antony 
Trent manifest, present, he had nothing but a grudg- 
ing respect and trust ; for Antony Trent absent, a loyal 
admiration and a strange, lingering desire for positive 
ownership. A glimpse of him, however, was always 
sufficient to dispel the softer feeling upon the instant. 
Besides, Antony held himself somewhat aloof, — 
perhaps on the warning theory of “ Follow a shadow, 
it still flies you.” Greathouse, reproached by his 
associates for his unusual trust in Trent, would answer 
savagely, “ He ’s straight as a string, sir, straight 
as a string,” but would allow himself to go no further. 
The phrase became a feature of Trent’s reputation. 

To-day the old man felt himself melting wholly ; 
the responsibility may have lain with the heat, or his 
feeling of illness, or the strong support of the sinewy 
arm ; but Greathouse experienced a swelling in his 
throat which might have ended in something more 
womanish, had not the door been opened just then, 
to admit his daughter’s dainty figure. 

“ Has your secretary-man gone ? ” she asked, 
opening a shutter and letting a stream of light into 
the room before she glided into an easy-chair. 

“ Secretary-man ? ” repeated Greathouse, irritably. 
“What do you mean?” 


4 


50 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


^'Why, Antony Trent. Isn’t he your secretary- 
man ? ” she dimpled teasingly. 

“Is that wit, Nell? If it is, it is of a very low 
order.” He was childishly and unaccountably nettled 
over her aimless banter. 

“ Why,” she laughed, enjoying his naive dis- 
comfiture, “ don’t you call the man who takes your 
lumber your lumber-man, and — and — well, why 
should n’t you call the man who sits at your secretary 
your secretary-man?” Her girlish laugh rang out 
merrily. Unfortunately her merriment did not fall 
upon responsive ground. 

“ Indeed ! ” he echoed angrily. “ Well, young 
lady, you may learn now — you can’t learn sooner — 
that Antony Trent does something more than sit at a 
secretary. If you had a particle of discernment, you 
would have felt that at a glance. But you have none. ” 

“ Oh, yes, I have, dearie. I could see at a glance 
that he was a little Boston.” 

“What is that? What does that mean, Helen? ” 

“ I mean he thinks he is the hub of the universe — 
doesn’t he? He has the manner of a man who 
thinks all the world waits upon his nod of approval.” 

“ Because his will prevailed against yours ? Per- 
haps if you were down in the office a half hour you 
would understand that few men do oppose his opin- 
ion. I have yet to find his first mistake.” 

“Oh, I see,” she murmured with some surprise. 
“ He is your Pope, papa ; quite, quite infallible.” 

“ Infallible? No ! ” roared Greathouse. “But as 
infallible as men in his capacity go.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


51 


Is n’t that a pretty good Pope ? But let me tell 
you something, papa.” Her youthful face grew sud- 
denly thoughtful. “I don’t believe in your Pope. 
He is not true.” 

Greathouse, thrown back by her unexpected serious- 
ness, regarded her mutely. Her ripe, pretty mouth 
had set in a line of stubborn conviction. Greathouse 
felt her kinship with curious antagonism. 

Eh ? ” he demanded. “ What do you mean, 
Nellie?” 

“ I mean that no man whose smile is a mere matter 
of teeth can be true. It is simply a machine smile, 
ready for any occasion ; he parts his lips, and his 
teeth do the rest.” 

It was now Greathouse’s turn to laugh, — a sar- 
castic, stinging laugh, to which Helen paid no heed. 

“ Don’t laugh, papa,” she pleaded, with some dig- 
nity. ‘‘He may be clever — that is it, he is too 
clever — too clever for you, Adam Greathouse.” She 
had the courage of her conviction, and had been 
speaking in all sincerity until she heard her own 
voice, when, the words sounding good to her, she 
rounded her sentence grandiloquently. 

Her father did not laugh. “By Jove, Helen!” 
he exclaimed, exasperated beyond endurance, “I ’m 
a fool to listen to your callow school-girl twaddle. 
Who do you think you are ? Damn it ! who do you 
think you are ? ” 

His daughter arose in unfeigned consternation. 
“ Papa ! ” she murmured in an affrighted, protesting 
tone. 


52 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


I say, who do you think you are ? Sit down ! 
Do you know you are sitting in ignorant, childish 
judgment upon a man whom the whole business com- 
munity respects to an extreme? Do you know that 
I would trust him with every cent I possess, and go 
to the other end of the world, and feel sure it would 
be honorably and wisely used ? Do you know that — 
that he is uncorruptible, untemptable, that — that he 
is straight as a string, sir ; straight as a string?’^ His 
voice broke hoarsely. He was frightened over his 
own vehemence ; he felt weak and foolish in this 
first recognition of what Antony Trent was in reality 
to him. 

No,’’ replied Helen, curiously, not knowing ex- 
actly what to say, but wishing to soothe her father’s 
perturbation. ‘‘ I did not know that. Then he must 
be a veritable Saint Antony after all.” 

Saint Antony? Who was Saint Antony?” re- 
peated Greathouse, in dazed weariness. “ Oh, yes ; 
something to do with women, had n’t he ? I saw a 
picture once — Don’t tease any more, Nell. I don’t 
know anything about Antony Trent and women ; all 
that I know is, that he is straight as a string, Nell, — 
straight as a string.” 

A feeling of protecting pity impelled the girl to his 
side, and she patted his cheek lovingly. 

You ’re a naughty girl, Nellie,” he said, stroking 
her hand in turn; “calling people all manner of 
unkind — ” 

“ I know,” she interrupted, in warm-hearted con- 
trition. “ But I only wanted to have some fun ; you 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


53 


were so terribly in earnest, papa. I ’ll sing you a 
song to make up. Shall I ? It 's all about him.’’ 

“ Who?” 

“ Saint Antony. We used to sing it at school, — 
during intermission, of course. It ’s a wicked little 
song, daddy. No, perhaps I ’d better not. Kiss me 
hard, dearidums ; and I’ll be good, and never do it 
again.” 

But once out of the room again, her momentary 
gravity vanished, and a wicked little smile danced in 
her eyes as she went off humming her wicked little 
seminary song : — 

“ Saint Antony, Saint Antony, 

For a mansion in the skies, 

Fled far the world’s temptations. 

Fled the light of woman’s eyes. 

But Antony, Saint Antony, 

Was it so wondrous wise .? 

Dost regret no lost sensations. 

In your mansion in the skies .? ” 

Meanwhile Trent had gone quickly down the 
street. He had put further thought of Helen Great- 
house into a pigeon-hole of memory, where it would 
be at hand at the propitious moment, and his mind 
was left free for the affairs of the hour. 

He walked over to the post-office, dropped his 
mail, and, glancing at the clock, noted that the time 
was earlier than he had thought. He proceeded 
more slowly up the street. When he reached the 
office, he stopped for a moment to speak to the 
workmen who were erecting a new awning over 


54 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


the old sign of ^‘The Adam Greathouse Co.’’ His 
voice rang out clear and distinct in the still air, and 
presently the office-boy emerged from the doorway, 
and walked hastily toward him. 

“A ‘ rush ’ telegram inside for you, sir,” he as- 
serted, importantly. Trent turned away, stepping in 
after him. 

He reached his desk in a stride, and picking up 
the envelope, tore it carefully open, and read ; — 

F.or God’s sake, come at once. 

Cyril. 

The wheels of affairs seemed to stand still. 

He stood moveless for several seconds. The 
office-hands were busy, and paid no attention to his 
sudden rigidity. He had had no communication 
from Cyril for several weeks, and for months prior to 
that, had received only the briefest of missives. He 
had given no heed, however, to the lapse ; during 
Cyril’s five years of independence there had been 
several hiatuses in their intercourse ; but Antony had 
not troubled. The demand came inopportunely. He 
had pressing business to despatch that afternoon, 
but the portentous nature of the telegram was not 
to be ignored. The young-un may be ill,” he 
thought, with a frown of vexation. He had no time 
to hesitate, however. He came quickly over to Mor- 
ton’s side, gave him some hurried instructions, ex- 
plained that he had received a hasty summons, and, 
with a brief good-bye, was out of the door, just catch- 
ing the omnibus as it passed on the road to the depot. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


55 


CHAPTER VI. 

O UDDENLY Trent laid down his pen, and in the 
flare of the gas-jets the brothers faced each 
other in haggard silence. Somewhere in the dis- 
tance a bell announced the midnight, the deep tone 
mingling with the boom of a fog-horn. 

The younger man leaned against the mantel-piece. 
He had stood so for the past three hours. For the 
past three hours no word had been exchanged; 
Antony Trent had paced the floor up and down, up 
and down, with quick, monotonous regularity, his 
gray face set and harsh, his eyes cold and repellent. 
Then he had seated himself and begun writing, his 
hand moving brusquely, almost cruelly, over the 
paper. Cyril Trent stood and watched him, his own 
face severely still in its intense ghastliness, — had 
watched the slender, sinewy figure treading the 
insensate floor for hours as though to beat from it 
some conclusive answer; watched him seat himself 
and begin the swift, spasmodic writing, as though 
delivering himself of straight hard blows; watched 
him seal, stamp, and address the envelope, as though 
affixing the last words to a judgment ; and continued 
to watch him with the same vacant stare when the 
cold, hard eyes finally met his. 


56 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


‘‘Well,” said Trent at length, with a harsh, mirth- 
less laugh, “ I Ve settled it.” 

The bloodless lips of the man facing him moved 
rigidly. “ What have you done ? ” he uttered with 
discordant difficulty. 

“ You heard the terms. They are satisfactory — 
generous — to me. Remarkably magnanimous. I 
have subscribed.” He leaned back in his chair, and 
laughed again in the same quick, ugly fashion. 

“ I — will — not have it,” breathed Cyril, heavily. 

“ You — will — not have it ! ” sneered Antony 
loudly, regarding him with overwhelming contempt. 

“You have no right,” ground out Cyril, through 
set jaws. 

“/ have 710 right repeated Trent, curiously. 
His face had changed slowly, astoundingly. All the 
restrained passion of the man seemed to have met 
in a fierce, fiery knot ready to burst in a volley from 
its sheathing skin. “ I have tio 7‘ight he reiterated 
with slow, choking utterance, leaning across the 
table in an attitude of menace. “You dare .face me 
and say that ? I have not the right ! Who has, — 
you?” 

“Yes.” 

“You? You had the right to dispose of your own 
life, but you shall not make a mess of mine. Do 
you think what I have done has been done for you ? 
Bah ! you fool, come to your senses ! I have my 
own life to live, and you are not going to spoil it. 
Do you hear ? I am paying high for it, — higher 
than you can ever understand ; but whatever it is, 


it is done for myself, and you must submit. Do you 
understand? ” 

“The burden is too heavy. I cannot endure 
it.” 

“You will have to endure it. I exact it. It is 
the only way. Do you hear? You will have to 
endure it, — as I must.” 

“ Antony — for mercy’s sake ! ” 

“ Hush. There is no other way, — no other w^ay 
for me to save myself. Two need not go under- 
I will not. You will submit and — be silent.” 

“ O God ! Antony, you are cruel ! ” 

“ Cruel ! ” 

Their eyes met as in a grip. The blood rushed 
over the painful beauty of the younger man’s face, 
and, receding, left it still and vacant. His eyes 
looked straight and unseeing before him. His 
strong figure seemed to bend as under weight. 

“No,” he said, in a far-off, dreamy tone, “you 
are kind. You are very, very kind, Antony. I shall 
repay.” 

With a hasty movement, Antony sprang to his 
feet. “ Don’t be maudlin,” he advised, with con- 
trolled violence. “You can never repay me. Don’t 
come any of your fool visions upon me. You have 
made a mess of your life. You are incompetent ; 
you cannot walk without assistance ; you don’t know 
what life means. It is hard, rough work; I have 
had to saw, and hammer, and shape, and fit, and 
clear my way ; with muscle and brain sinew, with 
brawn and — hard cash — not with dreams and 


58 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


ideals. Dreams and ideals ! Rot ! They Ve led 
you a pretty route ! ” 

Stop ! ” commanded Cyril, raising his hand, his 
face shining with alabaster radiance. “ Antony 
Trent, I tell you, you are fooling yourself. It is all 
sham and delusion, your money scheme. The hap- 
piness it promises is like the horizon, never reached. 
Put me aside — you are incapable of judging me — 
perhaps at the judgment day you will experience 
some strange surprises ; but while you have life 
and light, Antony, know this, — without ideals you 
are a blind conventional machine ; without ideals 
you are lower than the dog who licks your hand ; 
you are only dead, inconsequent waste matter.” 

To Antony, a ghost spoke, not his brother. He, 
the young-un, had vanished ; in his stead stood the 
spirit of a dreamy-browed man before the light of 
experience had come to him. It was a strange, eerie 
sensation. A feeling of bewilderment overtook him. 
He was trying to beat aside elfish thoughts and 
shadows, to grasp the true from the false. He looked 
up. No ghost. A young man with shining eyes 
and ghastly face, — a dreamer too, — only this one 
dreamed after the event, not before. Never had 
Antony Trent felt the great Human Excuse as he 
did at that moment when gazing into the face of his 
father’s child. 

“You ’re a fool, young-un,” he said, with a curious 
intonation of weariness. “You only beat the air, not 
the bush. You have your opinion, I have mine. 
No amount of discussion will ever make us agree. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


59 


Besides, discussion is not my business, — it has not 
taken the world very far from the starting-point, nor 
added anything to my advancement. I am not here 
to philosophize with you. This is not exactly a fit 
time. I was about to say — at least, all there is to 
say is that I expect you to be ready to start with me 
for Riverton the day after to-morrow on the eight- 
fifteen train. That is. clear, is it not? ” 

“And after?” 

“ After, you will make the best or worst of the 
limits with which I shall supply you. I am not 
desirous of exercising any tyranny, but you have 
given me, and I have bought, the right of super- 
vising your actions. You will start with me the day 
after to-morrow morning on the eight-fifteen train 
for Riverton. Have you any objections to make?” 

“ None, Antony.” 

“ Then it is settled. As to what has passed here 
this night, I want absolute silence and submission. 
Never revert to it again in word, act, or look. It is 
my affair entirely — I have bought it — and I never 
speak of my affairs. This night and its work are 
over, forever — for you. Do you understand what 
my wishes are ? ” 

Yes.” 

“ And do you promise to abide by them ? Will 
you take an oath?” 

“ A promise is an oath.” 

They looked again for one deep second into each 
other’s eyes. 

“ I am going out to post this letter,” said Antony, 


6o 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


putting on his hat, his face showing gray and hag- 
gard under the black brim. I will meet you here 
to-morrow morning.” The door clicked behind 
him. 

Cyril Trent stood motionless, gazing into futurity. 


PART II. 


Ah^ Love / could you and I with Him conspire 
To grasp this sorry Sche7ne of Things entire^ 
Would not we shatter it to bits — and theft 
Re-tnould it nearer to the Heard s Desire / 


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CHAPTER I. 



HE two men sat on the wide porch fronting the 


^ river. The hour was near twilight, the long, 
still hour of summer when day lingers in soft regret 
of its passing. Greathouse was smoking. 

“ While I have life, I shall smoke,” he had told 
the doctors doggedly, and he had kept his promise, — 
doggedly, in the face of the most painfully convinc- 
ing proofs of its injury. Trent did not smoke. He 
had concluded long ago that it was easier not to 
begin a luxury than to desist from it afterward. He 
had also calculated that by total abstinence on that 
point he was the gainer of from twenty-five to forty 
dollars per month. He believed that he could in- 
vest twenty-five or forty dollars in something more 
substantial than a passing pleasure. His imagina- 
tion was of the self-supporting sort ; it had no need 
for incense or magnificat. His promised land was 
not a thing of perfumes and enchantments, houris 
and soft cushions, neither was it rife with tender 
grass, new-mown hay, nor the babble of primitive 
nature ; he was neither devotee nor poet, sensist nor 
scientist. On this fine summer evening he was con- 
scious of two things, — he had just dined for the 
first time with Adam Greathouse ; he was conversing 


64 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


with him, not as his business factotum, but as a man. 
If he scented anything delightful in the air, it was 
not the evening with its roses and jasmines, but the 
breath of his nearing dream. 

He leaned back in a rattan easy-chair, facing his 
host, who, as usual, was stretched in his own invalid 
chair. The latter was enjoying a new, keen pleasure ; 
they had reached the personal element, and Trent 
had found it expedient to relax somewhat. 

“He rather startles me at times,” Greathouse was 
saying, through a cloud of fragrant blue smoke. 
“ His ideas of supply and demand, property rights, 
and so on, are almost socialistic. He told me to- 
day — he drops in very often after his hours at the 
office — he told me to-day that he thought that, after 
a certain figure, a man’s possessions are only his in 
trust for the community. ‘ You enormously rich 
men,’ he said, ‘ are only stewards of vast estates, 
under moral obligation to divide your surplus among 
the less able, the weaker toilers after happiness. 
Surplus of any sort is only given to the strong to be 
judiciously expended on the weak.’ He is a great 
partisan of the poor, your brother Cyril. I answered 
him to-day that between you and him I am likely to 
stay where I am — what you put into my pocket, he 
persuades out.” 

“ They say he is eloquent,” smiled Antony, quietly. 
“ He has spoken once or twice before the Sunday 
Morning Club, I hear.” 

“ So I have heard. Are you a member? ” 

“No. They profess to be conformists to no religion, 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


65 


merely seekers after Truth, — and they look for it 
in the bottom of a Well. I have looked into the 
bottom of a Well, and seen my own face.” 

“ So you conclude — ” 

That Truth is a relative quality, — its features 
change with the spectator. My brother Cyril, I have 
been told, believes that Truth is Eternal, unchange- 
able, one of the fixed Laws, the same for prince 
as for pauper, — only the one is blinded by sitting too 
long in the sun, the other by sitting too long in the 
dark. In his lectures before the Sunday Morning 
Club, he hopes to hand it — Truth — around for ex- 
amination to the sun-blinded.’’ 

He is a very picturesque figure. I understand 
he lives in Widbur’s summer cabin near the woods, 
and is keeping two poor lads with him, supporting 
them and educating them. He tells me Widbur left 
the cabin in a very comfortable condition, and has let 
it to him, furniture and all, at a very low figure. It is 
astonishing how he manages to do what he does on 
his salary.” 

‘‘ He has made a study of simple living.” 

‘‘And has got it down to a scientific basis with 
remarkably healthy and comfortable results. I tell 
him he ought to publish a treatise on the subject, 
besides living it, but he waves the suggestion aside. 
Has he no life ambition?” 

“ That is his life ambition.” 

The two men were silent for several minutes. 

“ He is very unworldly and — beloved,” remarked 
Greathouse, with unexpected gentleness. 

5 


66 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Yes. I understand the women in the town have 
put a halo around his head.” 

He is strikingly good-looking,” laughed Great- 
house, — “ the picture of your father as I remember 
him. Now you, I suppose, resemble your mother?” 

“ Yes. I am her son from crown to toe.” 

“ What sort of a woman was she ? ” questioned 
Greathouse, with obvious interest and deferential 
curiosity. 

An ambitious woman, — the wife of my father.” 

The words cut sharply, almost tragically. Great- 
house, with awakened sympathy, looked into the 
steely eyes of the son, who thus summarized his 
mother’s history. 

“You were young when she died, were you not?” 

“I was six years old. I was never young. We 
were poor, and — I was my mother’s confidant from 
infancy. Her confidences were my cradle-song.” 

Greathouse’s big heart hammered uncomfort“ 
ably. He hated the thought of this man’s poverty- 
stricken youth. He had taken his cigar from his 
mouth and was examining it critically. 

“Things have changed for the better, Antony,” 
he said, the given name slipping out unconsciously in 
his emotion. 

But Trent heard it. “Thanks to your assistance,” 
he said, with a grave inclination of the head. “ I 
am not a sentimentalist, Mr. Greathouse. 1 never 
indulge in speeches; but I think you have known 
that I appreciate what your assistance meant to me 
nineteen years ago.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


67 

didn’t take you into my employ,” said Great- 
house, hoarsely. “ The prompting was — - well, we 
won’t talk of that. But I have never regretted the 
step.” 

Thank you,’’ smiled Trent. Nor have I.” 

‘‘I was thinking,” began Greathouse, with some 
warmth ; but just then there was a sound of light, 
approaching footsteps, and in the gathering dusk 
two women came up the steps, the smaller running 
forward and precipitating herself into Greathouse’s 
arms with a cry of “ Papa ! ” The old man, visibly 
trembling, held his daughter to him. 

Did I frighten you ? ” she laughed, drawing back 
as she felt his silence and perturbation. “ I told 
Cousin Ned not to telegraph. I wanted to surprise 
you, and it looks as though I had succeeded.” 

“Yes, Nellie, yes,” he panted, clutching his side. 

So you ’re back at last ? x\ll well again ? See, here 
is Mr. Trent.” 

The girl looked across with a charming nod and 
smile of recognition to Trent, who had risen, and 
then turned toward her companion, who had hesi- 
tated on the topmost step. “ Papa,” she said, some- 
what breathlessly, “ this is Miss Gerri.sh.” 

Greathouse attempted t(^stand up. “ Do not 
rise,” said the girl thus pre^^ted, coming forward 
with a peculiar swiftness of motion. “I have come 
unexpectedly to my brother, Robert Gerrish of the 
Riverton ^ Times,’ and do not know where he lives. 
Could you direct me? It is such a lovely evening, 
and I should like to walk. Is it far?” 


68 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Greathouse looked up with quick interest into the 
dusky face, which seemed to belong by nature’s fit- 
ness to the low clear voice. ‘‘ Pardon my not rising, 
Miss Gerrish,” he stammered. I am somewhat 
of an invalid. I ought to know Gerrish’s house, but 
not going about, I have lost track of the town. Mr. 
Trent, you can direct Miss Gerrish. Mr. Trent, Miss 
Gerrish — a particular friend of your brother.” 

Ihey bowed courteously, Antony moving a step 
nearer. 

“ It is quite a walk,” he said, addressing her. 
‘‘ We are in the business portion of the town here, 
and we — Gerrish lives up Residence Avenue in the 
extreme west. I have the good fortune to live with 
him, and should be pleased to walk there with you if 
you wish ; if not, I can give you explicit directions.” 

She listened attentively while he went on to explain ; 
they were of almost equal height, and looked straight 
into each other’s eyes. 

/^It would be quite unnecessary to accompany 
me,” she returned, in answer to his proffered escort, 
when he had finished. “ I am quite sure I shall find 
it. Thank you. Miss Greathouse, we must not for- 
get our promises. Good-night, Mr. Greathouse ; ” 
and with an inclusive nod to all, she went swiftly 
down the steps, and passed, a tall figure, graceful 
with health and strength, out of the gate. 

Greathouse, still holding Helen’s arm, turned to 
Trent in surprise. Never knew Gerrish had a 
sister,” he remarked, as though struck by something 
confusing. Looks like a thoroughbred. Wonder 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 69 

what she ’ll do in this one-horse town with that — 
Where did you meet her, Nell?” 

On the train. I was feeling ill the first day, and 
Cousin Ned had wandered into the smoking-car, 
when she came up and spoke to me without cere- 
mony of any sort. She was just like a rush of health, 
although she moved and spoke in the same low- 
voiced, cultured manner. She has lost her grand- 
mother, with whom she has been living, and her 
brother telegraphed her to come on. I hope she 
will stay. I ’d like to know her. Is her brother like 
her?” 

“ Gerrish ever speak of her, Trent?” asked Great- 
house, obviously ignoring the question. 

“ He did mention one Barbara last week, but not 
in this connection, I think.” He met Helen Great- 
house’s bright eyes fixed upon him with a rather mis- 
chievous regard. He smiled questioningly. “ You 
look thoughtful, Miss Greathouse,” he said. “ I 
should think you would be too tired to think.” 

The girl laughed. I never think,” she returned, 
only ‘guess.’ Don’t call any one, papa. I’ll 
just run in and announce myself, and make myself at 
home, as though I hadn’t been gone for a whole 
year. I’ll be down again in a minute.” 

The evening was still and sweet with early summer ; 
in the pale sky a few first stars glimmered faintly. 
As Barbara Gerrish turned due west after two north- 
ward blocks, the train of circumstances which had 
landed her in this strange western town stole into 
her thoughts and walked with her. 


70 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


When the Gerrishes “ came down,” they accom- 
plished the feat handsomely. There was no need, 
they said, to wear their financial ruin in their faces. 
And although Horatio Gerrish died of a broken 
heart shortly after his money disaster, the doctors 
pronounced it a case of liver trouble, and saved his 
family the notoriety of a tragedy. 

The family consisted of his old mother, a son, and 
a daughter. His mother took the downfall and, 
later, the death, hard, — in secret, flis son had cast 
off parental guidance with his adolescence, and from 
his Western retreat, where, with some push and dash, 
and regular remittances from home, he had managed 
to secure a niche in Riverton’s rising journalism, he 
wired back the following consolation : “ Hard lines. 
Hope there is enough for you two to get along with. 
Don’t consider me. Am on the top wave this 
time.” 

Barbara received the message with a fine smile of 
derision, and a quick spasm of disappointment. She 
had some contempt for her brother, and not a little 
love of the romantic sort — a not uncommon feeling 
among girls for a man slightly known, whose life has 
recorded nothing but harum-scarum adventures or 
misadventures, but whose personality rings back a 
warm note of geniality, despite its undoubted selfish- 
ness. 

There was enough to get along with ; ” but the 
Gerrishes were not used to getting along. They had 
been used to riding along, or swimming along, or 
moving in whatever was the easiest and most approved 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


71 


fashion which American wealth and knowledge could 
devise. Barbara had, however, provided herself with 
an excellent walking-stick. She was college-bred. 
The family cantankerousness had taken this form in 
her. Barbara would go to college, and to college 
forthwith she had gone. Horatio Gerrish’s motto 
being for peace in the household at whatever cost, 
he had, early in his widowhood, discovered that the 
way of peace lay in submission to his decidedly 
strong-willed children. College leanings were not 
the ordinary failing of Barbara’s set. In fact, her 
commentators called her vagary peculiar and affected. 
Of course it was peculiar ; every one is peculiar, — at 
root ; only, most people get drilled to want to look 
alike. Barbara had no such desire. She was not a 
sheep. That was her peculiarity. She respected 
her own sweet way and will of looking at things. 
She wanted to develop. In the little snatches and 
scratches of learning which she had picked up in her 
fashionable boarding-school, she had discovered that 
she possessed an ego, — a hungry, wistful ego with 
insatiate mouth agape for “more, more” of the great 
thought and impulse of the day. So when she said 
to her father in her swift, graceful way, “ Dear, I am 
going to college,” Horatio Gerrish felt that she 
was there already, although he said argumentatively, 
“Why.? None of your girl friends go to college.” 
“ But I am not my girl friends,” she said, turning up 
her face half archly, half earnestly ; “ I am I.” And 
when her grandmother said, “Barbara, men don’t 
want to marry blue-stockings,” the girl responded 


72 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


musingly, ‘‘I don’t see what men have got to do 
with me, Grannie. I shall grow the way I want to 
grow, and if the men don’t want me they may leave 
me.’’ Her grandmother murmured something about 
^‘by-and-by,” but the word bore only a remote 
meaning to Barbara, and she smiled her remon- 
strances aside. 

She was twenty-three when she won her A. B. 
She was very proud of that A. B., — it was some- 
thing like a crown which she wore inside her 
head. But on the day her father went under, she 
took it out and wore it openly. She said, “ 1 am in 
search of pupils. This is my reference.” But the 
words ran as though she said, “ I am a princess ; you 
may come and learn of me if you wish.” 

She became quite a fad. “ Poor Barbara ! ” Society 
said, “let us go and study Browning and Buskin 
of her. We must help the brave girl along.” So 
Barbara tasted the sweets of independence and 
patronage, and by-and-by she really got to like it, 
and sometimes, by-and-by, she grew heartily sick 
and tired of it. But she never told any one, because 
there was no one to tell. 

She was nearing twenty-six when one day her 
gentle old grandmother smiled herself out of the 
world, and Barbara was left stranded. She had no 
intention of knuckling under; but she wrote her 
brother a short letter, telling him of her loss, because 
he was the only person in the world upon whom she 
had a lien. With characteristic laziness her brother 
wired back : “ Come along. I will look out for 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 73 

you. I am keeping house. If you want funds, 
telegraph. If not, come at once.” 

She had not thought of this. In fact, she had just 
accepted an offer as instructor of physiology and 
hygiene in a girls’ school ; but, for all her indepen- 
dence, she was hungering for somebody to love, — 
not somebody to love her, mark, — and her imag- 
ination rushed to this stranger brother in the dim 
distance ; and, with all the family spirit of venture 
guiding her, she withdrew her acceptance of the 
professorship, flung a parting look of tenderness to 
her three graves, and turned anticipatively toward 
the golden west which held promise of new life 
for her. 

She felt a prophecy of happiness as she walked on. 
Buoyant health is mother to buoyant hope. When 
the blood flows bright and warm in the veins, optim- 
ism is rampant, and one feels himself king of his own 
fate. 

The common which- heralded the suburbs, and 
which she was to cross, was still two blocks beyond, 
when she suddenly became aware of a man’s moving 
figure just ahead of her. She noticed his fine ])ro- 
portions and the supple play of his muscles as he 
swung on ; but she was more attracted by the fact 
that he held his hat in his hand, and seemed to have 
a greeting acquaintance with all who passed. Her 
interest was piquantly increased when she saw one 
individual in overalls move aside as he came up, 
take off his hat, and bend reverently till he had 
passed. 


74 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


A clergyman, perhaps,” thought Barbara, but 
rejected the idea in consideration of his apparel. 
He stopped once to speak to a young woman 
carrying a huge newspaper bundle, and Barbara 
was just behind him when, as they neared the 
entrance to the common, she heard him sing out 
to the policeman stationed there, “ Seven o’clock, 
Tom; all well?” “All’s well, sir,” answered the 
belted guardian of the peace, touching his hat 
respectfully. The stranger’s voice sounded mellow 
and musical in the evening air, and possessed the 
unmistakable accent of culture, which Barbara recog- 
nized, and which roused her curiosity the more to 
see the owner’s face. 

He entered the common, and was continuing on a 
few yards ahead of her, when he stopped abruptly, 
looking from side to side as though in search of 
something. Barbara, coming alongside, was passing 
on, but stood still a step beyond. 

“A child is crying,” she said, turning swiftly 
toward him. 

“I am trying to locate the sound,” he answered, 
meeting her eyes for a second and making a hesi- 
tating step in the opposite direction. 

“ I think it is over here,” she suggested, nodding 
north, and moving toward the sound. He moved 
swiftly with her. Barbara’s interest had deepened 
measurably after that fleeting glance into the 
stranger’s face. The fitful, childish sobbing drew 
her, but the face of the man beside her added 
wings to the kindly impulse. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


75 

He strode past her as they came in sight of a 
forlorn little figure upon a bench, half hidden beneath 
a drooping willow. 

“Well, little one,’’ he was saying cheerily as she 
came up, “what’s the trouble? Did you lose 
yourself? ” 

“ Please, sir,” sobbed the child, looking up into 
his bending face through a tangle of brown curls, 
“I’ve hurt my foot — and — I want to go home.” 
She ended with a burst of loud weeping, and the 
stranger seated himself beside her, lifting her to his 
knee. 

“Which foot?” he asked. The child, a girl of 
three, held up one little foot in its worn covering, 
and he unfastened the two buttons which held the 
shoe together. 

“ Let me,” interposed Barbara quickly, depositing 
her hand-bag on the bench and kneeling in the grass 
before them. She could see, before drawing off the 
stocking, that the foot was sadly swollen. “Ah,” 
she exclaimed, as she took the small exposed mem- 
ber in her hand, “a horrid splinter has got in. Just 
hold her firmly, please, and I will remove it.” He 
assented silently. She opened her bag, drew out a 
fine, open knife, and after pulling off her glove 
approached the reddened foot. “ Now, little girl,” 
she said, her firm white hand commencing its work, 
“I will have the naughty thing out in j-u-s-t a 
minute. See, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world — 
just — a — minute more, childie, and — there you 
are ! ” She held up the tiny bit of wood with a 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


76 

radiant smile. “Nasty little thing,’’ she apostro- 
phized, while the child sniffed on. “ There, I ’ll 
throw it far away. And now I ’ll make you all 
nice again. She proceeded, with professional care, 
to dress the wound, drawing the necessary diluted 
carbolic acid and vaselined linen from her small 
leathern receptacle. 

“ Are you a physician ? ” asked the man, with 
pleasant deference, as, still kneeling, she replaced 
the torn stocking. 

A faint flush crept over her face under his gentle 
scrutiny. “Oh, no,” she smiled. “I am only 
ready in case of an emergency. I have been 
travelling, and happen to have my little emergency 
case with me. There you are, little girl, — but I 
don’t think you can put your shoe on. Come, let 
me wipe your eyes.” 

“ I will carry her home,” said the stranger, rising 
with the little form in his arms. “ Do you know 
where you live, child? What is your name?” 

“ Tot,” she responded with sudden shyness. “ I ’m 
Tot Lake. I live with papa down in Factory Lane 
by the Laundry.” 

“ I know,” he answered, with a nod. “ Take 
your shoe from the lady. Tot, and put your little 
toes right in here.” He drew his coat over the 
limb, buttoning it in securely. “That can’t get 
lost, can it?” he said, with a boyish laugh, and he 
whispered a word in her ear. 

The child piped a bashful “Thank you,” and 
as Barbara threw her a kiss, the man raised his 
hat, and they turned in opposite directions. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


77 


^^Some projected god,” she thought whimsically, 
“dressed in a gray sack-coat and white flannel 
shirt.” She laughed softly at the thought as she 
walked on, trying to overtake lost time. Through 
the gathering gloom his every feature, the marble 
purity of his face, the golden hair worn somewhat 
longer than custom demanded, the ideal brow and 
eyes, the sad, ascetic mouth, and broad, tender chin, 
gleamed like a will-o’-the-wisp before her. 


CHAPTER II. 


S HE came up the walk, noting with quick obser- 
vation the small villa-like house with its encir- 
cling porch, and the old-fashioned grounds with their 
profusion of fruit trees and garden blooms jumbled 
together in artless confusion. I'here was a discon- 
certing stillness about the place, but she went up the 
few steps and rang the bell. She heard it tinkle 
through the hall, and waited quietly for the answer. 
None came. She rang again, and, after a few 
minutes, the conviction seized her that the house 
was deserted. She had not considered this possi- 
bility. The film of night was falling, and she was 
alone in a strange place ; but a faint gleam of humor 
stole about the corners of her mouth as she looked 
about. 

I will take a survey of the premises,’’ she 
decided, and came down the steps, skirting the 
shrubbery at the side, and proceeded to the back of 
the house. Here all was quiet as in the front. The 
dog-kennels, chicken-coops, and out-houses held no 
occupants ; the porch was lifeless, the kitchen silent 
and barred. 

She stood still, in perplexity. Suddenly from the 
direction of the stable, which was separated from the 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


79 


rest of the premises by a high hedge partition, she 
heard voices in brisk converse ; at the same mo- 
ment, the gate in the hedge swung open, and a 
large, heavily-built man came out, switching a riding- 
whip right and left. Her senses gave a leap of glad 
recognition. 

“ Well, Petruchio,’^ she called. 

The man stood, raising his hat in hesitation. Then 
he came toward her, the hat still raised interroga- 
tively. She stood waiting, a tall, straight, full-rounded 
figure, holding her small leather travelling bag at her 
side. She was smiling, her somewhat large mouth 
showing the edge of strong white teeth, her dusky 
face holding a warm glow, her wood-brown eyes 
looking straight into his, as if to prompt his laggard 
senses. Presently his look of admiration passed into 
a swift one of recognition. 

Barbara ! ” he cried, and with a quick movement 
he drew her to him. Her first impulse was to draw 
back ; but, with the second, she yielded her mouth 
to his caress. Why, you Ve grown out of all ex- 
pectation,” he said, holding her off at arm’s length. 

You ’re a high-stepper. Barb, and no mistake.” 

She smiled now, but only faintly, looking up into 
his handsome, dissipated eyes. “ So have you, 
Robert,” she responded, “although I don’t know 
that I had anything to base expectation on. Well, 
are you glad to see me or not, now that I am 
here ?” 

“’Glad to see you ! ” he echoed heartily ; “ Glad to 
see you ! A man would have to be blind not to be 


8o 


THE JOY OE LIFE. 


glad to see you, let alone your long-lost brother. 
Hand over that bag, lovely sister, and let us go in.” 
He took the bag from her, and with his hand upon 
her shoulder, led her round by the shrubbery again 
and on into the house, opening the door with his 
latch-key. 

“It’s a man’s house,” he admonished, lighting 
the gas in the small hall, and going toward one of 
the open doors. “ So don’t be finicky, Barbara.” 

She moved past him into the room, and as he 
turned up the lamp, she stood and looked around 
her with approval. I like it,” she said decidedly, 
her eye taking in the great comfortable leather 
couch and easy-chairs, the well-filled book-cases, the 
heavy mahogany table strewn with papers and 
writing paraphernalia. “I like it,” she repeated, 
appreciating the tone of the room at once. “ What 
a splendid library you seem to have ! ” 

“ The books are Trent’s — his father’s collection, 
I believe. Sit down and take off your hat, and let ’s 
have a good look at you.” 

She obeyed with a little laugh, and sat looking up 
at him while she pushed her heavy dark hair back 
from her brow. With characteristic caressing man- 
ner, he came over, put one hand upon her shoulder, 
and, with the other under her chin, turned up her 
face. Something in the depths of her eyes brought 
a disconcerted laugh from his lips, and he moved 
from her. 

You seem to have good eyesight,” he said, 
half-seating himself upon the table before her. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


8l 


‘‘I have,” she returned quietly ; and then, wishing 
to dispel the faint approach of gravity, “ who is Mr. 
Trent? ” she asked with interest, leaning her head 
against the comfortable back of the chair. And 
won’t my coming disturb your bachelor arrange- 
ments ? ” 

^‘Not a bit — why should it? Trent is half the 
time out of town ; and when he is here, he does not 
bother the house much. We took it only last year. 
Trent was threatened with brain fever, — fagged to 
death, — and the doctor had advised him to get out 
of the din of the town, I was in the same box — er 
— that is — I was running it too hard at the Club — ■ 
and we fell upon this plan together, both as a sani- 
tary and economic experiment. Mrs. Black, an old 
friend of Trent’s, runs things for us — and will keep 
you in countenance — and with the help of Ching, 
the Chinese cook, we ’re in clover. But I say, girl, 
you must be famished.” He started up with hos- 
pitable concern. ‘‘ Sit there, and I ’ll see what I can 
dig up in the way of supper. I don’t know how our 
housekeeping arrangements will strike you ; my 
only stipulation to the old lady was that she keep 
a full larder always on tap, and so — ” 

As he disappeared, rolling out a popular song in 
a great sweet baritone, the smiling, interested look in 
her eyes changed abruptly. Her face put on a dis- 
turbed, abstracted expression : she seemed to look 
into a troubled futurity. The unmistakable history 
of dissipation upon his coarsened yet attractive 
personality changed the whole aspect of her life 
6 


82 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


just ahead. And yet, at the sound of his returning 
footstep, her face lightened visibly. 

“ Here you are, Barbara,’’ he called ; and as he 
appeared in the doorway, bearing a huge pate and 
loaf, a bottle tucked under either arm, a wholly 
bright smile illumined her countenance. 

“ Looks jolly to see you there,” he ejaculated, 
standing still and beaming upon her. ‘‘ No. 
Don’t move — I’m waiting on you to-night. 
There you are. Now I ’ll get that cold duck 
I caught sight of, and the crockery and things.” He 
seemed a big boy enjoying a lark. He came back 
presently, deposited his clattering burden, seized the 
corkscrew, and in a trice had their glasses filled. 

He held his own up to the light. “ See it snap, 
Barbara,” he murmured, with an appreciative gulp 
and thirsty eyes. “ It ’s the very essence of joy. 
Look at it ! Well, girl, here ’s to you — live, love 
and be merry — and the devil take the conse- 
quences.” He tossed the ruby flame down his 
throat, and sat down next her with a rollicking 
laugh. 

Barbara felt her cheeks glow with confused excite- 
ment ; despite her doubt of the moment before, 
his jolly good-fellowship was irresistible, and she fell 
happily to. 

It seems just like a picnic,” she said delightedly. 
“ I hope you won’t be telling me presently that it is 
time for me to be up and away.” 

No fear, sweetheart,” he said decidedly, his 
heavy hand coming down on her slender one as she 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


83 

reached for the butter. Barbara was unused to this 
sort of tenderness, and the loving epithet, which came 
as naturally from this big genial man as song from 
bird in summer, filled her with a new gladness. 

“ And you are quite sure your Mr. Trent won’t 
object — nor the housekeeper? ” 

“Mrs. Black? She’ll be only too glad to have 
a kindred spirit around to talk to. There ’s lots of 
room and no one to disturb you until dinner-time ; 
and as for Trent, he never complains — close- 
mouthed as a fist. Nothing disturbs him. If he 
does n’t like the company he is in, he has a faculty of 
withdrawing within himself so completely that he 
might as well be in another place.” 

“ How very discourteous he must be ! ” 

“Oh, no, he’s not,” laughed Gerrish, throwing 
back his head. “ He only gradually grows more 
distant until he vanishes spiritually, in entirety. No 
one has better manners than Trent, but there ’s a 
sort of Puritan bloodlessness about him. He can 
tell a man he ’s a blackguard in the same low, even 
tone in which he might tell a woman he admires her ' 
costume — not that he is much given to the latter 
style of conversation. But he will approve of you, 
Barbara, beyond a question.” 

“Indeed! Why?” she asked, in disdainful 
surprise. 

“ Because — well, there ’s something about the 
cut of you that wiH suit Trent. Something like this ; ” 
he threw out his arm with a movement straight from 
the shoulder, indicative of perfect strength. 


84 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Barbara smiled with a show of understanding. 
She sipped her wine with leisurely pleasure. “ Mr. 
Trent and I have already met,” she said, after a 
pause, “ I travelled here with a young girl, Miss 
Helen Greathouse, and accompanied her to her 
father’s house for further directions in order to find 
you. With your usual care you forgot to send me 
your full address, but Mr. Trent was with Mr. Great- 
house, and was as clear as a guide-book. But who 
is he?” 

“ The most desirable man — matrimonially speak- 
ing — in town.” His dark eyes laughed wickedly 
into hers. 

“ Ah,” returned Barbara, in the same spirit, I 
must make a note of that. What does he do, did 
you say? ” she added with American idiom. 

“ He is Adam Greathouse’s business manager. 
Greathouse is one of the rich men of the coast. 
He has enormous interests, and Trent is his repre- 
sentative, — a remarkably fine financier, though 
somewhat conservative. In other words, he is the 
direct opposite of his brother, Cyril Trent.” 

“And what is Cyril Trent ?” 

“ A fool.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“ I mean he is no nian.” 

“ I don’t think I quite understand.” 

“ Well,” he said, with a short, sarcastic laugh, 
“ perhaps Mrs. Laurie’s stinging rejoinder to that 
assertion might be more comprehensible to you. 
She said : ‘ Mr. Gerrish means that Cyril does not 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


85 


break the seventh commandment nor substitute Self 
or Gold for God.’ It was an infatuated woman’s 
opinion, but you may take it for what it is worth.” 

“ He must be a freak,” she murmured interestedly. 

“ A truly godly man,” declared Gerrish, with 
another peculiar laugh. “ As I said, a fool. That is 
his reputation among men ; but being a good-look- 
ing, educated fool, the darling of the women. No 
doubt you will follow the lead if you are at all 
susceptible. I suppose you will meet him next 
Thursday evening at Mrs. Laurie’s reception, to 
which I have been given a special invitation, and to 
which you will doubtless be asked. The Lauries 
are my one social extravagance — as with Cyril 
Trent. He generally favors them in some uncon- 
ventional manner and attire, I have heard. You 
will have to curb your expectation until then, unless 
you want to go slumming at night, or would like 
to visit him during the day in Antony Trent’s office, 
where he does his brother’s private and foreign corre- 
spondence. Or you might go on a flower mission 
to his log-cabin with Anna Laurie some day. He ’s 
quite a wild man of the woods. Oh, he ’s a great 
play-actor — not by vocation but by instinct — all 
saints are, else we would call them by another name — 
and you ladies dearly love a buskin, you know. Plain 
man in natural habiliments is quite too low for 
approval. Ah^ que les femmes sont drdles ! ” He 
picked up the bottle, refilled his glass, and drank it 
with a sort of flourish. He seemed to be laboring 
under some venomous thought. 


86 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


But the next minute he laughed her questioning 
look aside. “ Come, come,” he said, let us take 
up a more interesting topic. How have the years 
been treating you, Barbara ; and how is it that you 
are not married yet?” 

“ ‘ Nobody asked me to, sir,’ ” she said, looking 
quizzically down into his eyes. 

“Oh, nonsense,” he exclaimed incredulously. 

“ Truly, Bob.” she answered seriously. “ You 
see, I have a peculiar code. I have never met the 
man whom I would allow to propose to me.” 

“Eh?” he asked, not quite understanding her 
direct gaze. 

“ Exactly,” she nodded enigmatically. “ Oh, yes. 
One man did. He would nJ see. He was a 
widower. Nature abhors the warmed-over, Robert.” 

“ And so ? ” 

“ And so, here I am with my little mite, which will 
just about keep me in clothes and bread-and-butter, 
a college education, and a great big desire to get out 
and earn some lovely filthy lucre.” 

“ None of that, sister. What ’s mine, you know — 
I ’m in the ups just at present. The ‘ Riverton 
Times ’ has the largest circulation of — ” 

“Of course it has — they all have,” she laughed. 
“ But you must know that all I can take from you is 
your protection.” 

“ Fie-fo-fum ! ” he exclaimed ; then, recognizing 
the spirited firmness of her glance, he frowned, and 
was silent for some time. 

Barbara broke the pause. “ I must be independ- 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


87 


ent, ’ she said quietly. “I have grown used to it. 
I would rather go away again than feel dependent 
upon you. You cannot fight that stand, Robert.” 

“You are not a new woman, are you?” he de- 
manded abruptly. 

“ I don’t know, — I don’t think so. But do you 
know, I feel like a real old woman just now? I think 
I am tired, and want to go to bed.” 

“ Poor little girl,” he exclaimed, lapsing into his 
former easy catnaraderie. “ Come, I will show you 
to the guest-chamber ; it is always in readiness.” 

He picked up the lamp from the table, and link- 
ing his arm through hers, led her upstairs into the 
large, handsomely appointed bed-room. 

“ How manly ! ” she remarked, noting the male 
appurtenances upon the dressing-table, the shaving- 
stand in the corner, the conveniences of the adjoining 
bath-room, the largeness and solid simplicity of it all. 

“ VVe sometimes entertain a passing celebrity here,” 
he explained, looking around with some awkward- 
ness. “ But nary a woman. Is there anything I can 
get you, do you think, Barbara ? ” 

“ It looks quite complete, Robert,” she said, “ and 
so tempting. Which is your room ? ” 

“ Opposite. Trent has the south wing all to him- 
self. Well, good-night, girlie ; sleep well. I ’ll tell 
Mrs. Black about you in the morning.” 

“ Good-night,” she called after him as he turned 
away. 

She seated herself in the great easy-chair in front 
of the dressing-table. Abstractedly, she let down 


88 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


her hair, the dark mass escaping from its pins as 
with relief. She leaned back and closed her eyes. 
Altogether it had been a pleasant home coming. 
How genial and warm-hearted he seemed ! — the 
milk of human kindness flowed quite beautifully and 
spontaneously from him. She loved him already. 
She was thankful for the gift of such a brother. 
And yet — the signs upon him, — the unquestion- 
able marks of riotous living in the handsome, frank 
face. Pshaw ! Perhaps she was unreasonable ; per- 
haps they were only relics of his early bohemian 
days and adventures ; and perhaps she exacted 
too much from a big-hearted, reckless man of his 
vocation, in this hustling, bustling Western town. 
She would learn soon enough. He had been so 
long from home and kindred. Perhaps she — She 
drifted on into a novel train of aspiration, an earnest 
craving to become an active influence in his life. 
She did not know how long she sat, or whether she 
had fallen asleep, when she suddenly started up, hesi- 
tated, then, with a musing smile in her eyes, softly 
opened her door and walked across the hall to her 
brother's room. 

“Robert,’’ she called in a low voice. “Robert.” 

“ That you, Barbara ? ” came the sleepy response. 

“Yes. Are you asleep?” 

“ Fast.” 

“ I mean, may I come in for a second ? ” 

“ Certe. Open the door ; it is unlocked.” 

She glided in swiftly, just making out the outline 
of the bed in the darkened room. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


89 


“ I wanted to kiss you good-night, dear,” she 
whispered, finding his face in the dark, and pressing 
her lips to his. 

“ Well,” he murmured, catching at her long hair as 
it brushed his cheek ; but she escaped, and the next 
moment was out of the door again. 

As she closed it behind her, she heard an ap- 
proaching footstep, and, turning, somewhat startled, 
she faced Antony Trent, who was coming up the 
stairs, carrying a lighted candle. 

He bowed gravely and deferentially, passing down 
the corridor with a look straight ahead. 

“ I had not thought of him,” she murmured 
vexedly, putting up her hand to her loosened hair. 


90 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


CHAPTER III. 

I N the West country they grow big hearts along with 
their big fruits. Wherever nature is rich and 
prodigal you will find a corresponding aspect in the 
soul and face of its people. 

All Riverton came to visit, in welcome, Barbara 
Gerrish. “ All Riverton ” comprised about one five- 
hundredth part of the entire population ; but, through 
a preponderance of quality, it was regarded by its con- 
stituents as holding the surplus of power. Beyond its 
limits, they agreed that, socially, Riverton did not 
exist. Into this hierarchy Barbara Gerrish was, by 
right of the tradition of caste, naturally drawn. 
Humanity, like water, seeks its level. Culture, so- 
called, she found is a cosmopolite ; she recognized 
some of its indubitable features at a glance in this 
little Brahmin circle of the west. Equality, or the 
appearance of it, constitutes society. Though Bar- 
bara Gerrish had been a bread-winner in exclusive 
New York, she was well connected, and, up to her 
departure, might have shone by the lustre of her 
past, had she so desired. But, once launched in 
her independent course, she found herself somewhat 
out of joint with society’s brilliant aimlessness, and 
had gradually withdrawn herself. In consequence of 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


91 


which she. had received fewer cold-shoulderings than 
custom generally grants to a girl in her position from 
near-sighted little Belgravia wrapped so securely in 
its illusions and furs. Riverton culture, abetted by 
the aforesaid western measurement of heart, shook 
hands with Barbara as with one of its own. 

“Then I shall count upon you surely Thursday 
night,” said Mrs. Laurie on her first visit, rising and 
extending her slight, gloved hand in adieu. “ Your 
brother has promised to come, and Mr. Trent, — I 
hope he will have returned by that night — so you 
will be well escorted. They are very elusive and 
hard to secure, those two bachelors, and Anna, my 
daughter, is correspondingly delighted over their 
acceptance. You must try to make your brother 
love his Club a little less, Miss Gerrish, for all our 
sakes.” 

“ I shall try to,” she replied, looking into the 
winning, patrician face framed in its nimbus of 
snowy hair. “ We are slightly strangers as yet, you 
know, my brother and I, and I suppose he has his 
best foot still foremost. But he is very accommo- 
dating. Perhaps it is the novelty of the situation ? ” 

Mrs. Laurie smiled in answer to her wistful smile. 
“And the charm,” she supplemented gracefully. 
“ But we are not going to allow you to grow lone- 
some in these bachelor quarters.” 

“ I hope to continue my work, you know,” said 
the girl, moving with her to the door. 

“Pardon?’^ murmured her visitor gently, standing 
still in the doorway. 


92 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


^‘You know I am a work-bee,” explained Barbara 
lightly, — or rather, an A. B. ; I have been giving 
lecture-lessons on the poets, and had just accepted 
a professorship in anatomy and hygiene.” 

“How very pleasant and clever!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Laurie in a charmed manner. “ How very 
opportune for Anna I She has wanted so long to 
find somebody sympathetic enough to read her 
poets with, and here you have walked straight into 
her desire. I hope you will be able to make some 
arrangements with her toward that end. Will you call 
soon and see ? ” She held out a persuasive hand. 

A very faint hint of stiffening was perceptible in 
Barbara’s attitude as she put her hand into the ex- 
tended one. “ I shall be pleased to have Miss 
Laurie call,” she returned somewhat distantly. 

Mrs. Laurie flushed, a quick look of pain darting 
into her handsome eyes. “ She will come,” she 
assured her girl-hostess, and Barbara felt, inexplica- 
bly, that she had been rebuked. 

It was late afternoon of the same day, while she 
sat writing in the shadow of the porch, that Anna 
Laurie came to her, a frail, lily-like young thing, her 
golden hair braided school-girl fashion and turned up 
with a brown velvet ribbon. The great fawn-like 
eyes, the fine, pinched nose, the quick, panting 
breath showed painful evidences of the ruthless 
destroyer. 

Barbara understood now the reproach of the 
mothers tone, and her hand grasped the delicate 
one of the girl’s in contrition. Sit down,” she 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


93 


said in her swift fashion, gently leading her visitor to 
the settee. “ It is so warm. I might just as well 
have gone to you.” 

‘‘ Mother told me,” laughed the other, her eyes 
devouring the tall stranger girl hungrily. “ Mother 

— told me — all about you. Oh, I am all out of 
breath. Ah-h ! There — now I can speak better.” 
She drew a long quivering sigh as she leaned back 
against the trellis, and after a moment went on 
brightly ; I could n’t wait to come — she said you 
reminded her of holly berries.” 

Barbara laughed caressingly. As she pressed the 
fragile fingers of the hand which she had not 
released, some of her vivid warmth seemed to 
communicate itself to the girl beside her. 

“ You see,” Anna continued, when Mr. Gerrish 

— your brother — said you were coming — I was so 
anxious. You know — your brother and I are — 
used to be great friends.” A great ball of fire blazed 
I'p into her wan cheek. “So I was interested. 
Two years ago — before I grew so delicate — when I 
went about enjoying myself — he — was very — we 
were very friendly. We used to sing together ; but I 
have not seen much of him lately.” 

“ He spoke of you to me,” said Barbara, her 
clasp tightening. It was something pretty, I re- 
member, because it left a pleasant memory.” 

“ Yes ? Did he ? ” The bright spot in either 
cheek burned hotly, her eyes flashed happily. But 
then he would be apt to speak kindly of any one — 
except, of course, of Cyril.” 


94 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Cyril?” 

“ Cyril Trent — another friend. Perhaps you 
have heard of him ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah, from your brother; I can tell by your tone. 
Miss Gerrish, why does he hate Cyril Trent so ? ” 

“ He considers him a hypocrite, from all I could 
gather.” 

“ Oh, but he is not. He is the truest man I have 
ever met.” She said it simply, with the simplicity 
of a child’s faith. A gentle, musing calm seemed to 
settle upon her. “ He is strange — Cyril, of course ; 
but no one doubts his sincerity except your brother. 
He is a dream-man, you know. He was always like 
that, my father says. You know the Trent boys grew 
up with the town, and Mr. Antony Trent is consid- 
ered one of its financial lights. But Cyril is not to 
be measured by the ordinary standard, — he is simply 
a lover of humanity. He will love you — not be- 
cause you are you, but because you are alive. There 
is nothing personal in his friendships. He seems to 
have his head in some high cloud, but all the while 
his hand is groping to lift up some stumbling creature. 
I love Cyril Trent.” She said this last, too, simply, 
with the simplicity of a child. “ Some of the men 
say he has made a mess of it — that he is a failure. 
He had opportunities, it seems. But I don’t think 
he is a failure, nor do others — some of the mem- 
bers of the Pagan and Sunday Morning Clubs, of 
which he is an honorary member ; the students of 
the Academy ; the two boys he is supporting, and ever 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


95 


SO many others of whom we know nothing. Strange, 
is n’t it, that he should be misunderstood by a man 
as kind and noble-minded as your brother?” She 
looked wistfully toward her companion. 

“ Robert is quick-blooded,” said his sister, in de- 
fense. “And we are all subject to prejudice.” 

“ Yes,” laughed the younger girl. “ That is why — 
Are we going to be friends ? I think I need a friend 
— like 3^ou.” 

Barbara drew the slight hand closer to her. The 
new element which she had felt awakening in her 
on the first night of her arrival, put out another shoot. 
She was glad of the trusting suppliance of this girlish 
sufferer upon her strength ; in that moment she 
gloried in her superb, untrammelled health. “ It is 
good to live,” she thought, as though drinking deep 
for the first time of some rare gift. 

She experienced a slight disappointment the fol- 
lowing Thursday evening when Robert did not come 
home for dinner but telephoned his unavoidable 
absence. “ Let Mrs. Black take you up to Laurie’s. 
I ’ll see you there later,” he said. 

So Barbara prepared to enjoy herself, and made 
her entrance into Riverton society. 

She was a pleasant feature in the Laurie drawing- 
room. Old General Grosvenor told his hostess that 
the girl was good as a reveille-call, and he stumped 
after her, his game-leg notwithstanding, whenever he 
saw a chance of ingress to her smile. Barbara had 
one attractive peculiarity : she never talked down to 
young men nor up to old men, but straight across 


96 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


to them ; and General Grosvenor felt enthusiastically 
young, and Powell Laurie complacently important, 
and all the little world who spoke to her or looked 
upon her felt her charm. 

Helen Greathouse was there, a pretty bit of flesh ; 
Barbara noticed her, later in the evening, talking 
animatedly to Antony Trent. He had come in 
late, his appearance causing some little stir and sur- 
prise. He had been out of town for the past week : 
and, seeing him now for the first time in full light, 
Barbara was conscious of watching him with interest. 
She could not understand what the young chatterer 
could have to say to entertain this evidently quiet, 
reserved man ; yet he seemed not only to listen 
with chivalrous pleasure, but had met her half-way, 
and appeared to be speaking interestingly and with 
charm. 

It was nearing midnight when some one said there 
was to be music, and Barbara, with anticipative eyes, 
moving from her companion to one of the open 
windows, seated herself upon the low, broad seat. 
She sat half-turned to the room, half to the night 
without. At the first sweep of the strings, she settled 
her back more firmly against the window-joist. 

She had recognized, with surprise, the artist-hand. 
She could not see the player. With her face to the 
fragrant night, the music sounded far away ; she 
gave herself up to the spell of the moment. The 
dreamy sway of the melody stirred her to the depths. 
Her aesthetic sense was strongly developed ; she did 
not know what was played — she was a musician 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


97 

only in temperament — but it harmonized with the 
night, with the grace of the surroundings. 

And suddenly, as she sat there in the embrasure 
of the window, while the player played on, and the 
air pulsed with his music, she saw a tall form facing 
her, gazing into the room from the dim, lantern-hung 
veranda. At the first seeing glance she gave a half- 
start of recognition. It was the man with the pecu- 
liarly peaceful face whom she had seen the first night 
on the common. And just then the music ceased, 
and the soft, blue-gray eyes met hers. 

No one can play as David plays,” he said. His 
voice was grave and musical. 

Do you mean David, the beautiful singer ? ” she 
asked in the same quiet tone. 

The stranger smiled. “No,” he answered. “ I 
mean David Simms yonder.” 

She leaned forward, following his nod, and saw 
a slender, sharp-faced young man, who, in answer to 
the repeated applause, took up his violin and began 
playing again, his head swaying to the tempo, his 
body rising on tip-toe to the ascendant phrase, his 
whole being bewitched with his evocation. 

Barbara drew in a deep breath of pleasure as the 
bow rested. “Oh,” she murmured, turning again to 
the man without, “ why is it that music sounds so 
much more beautiful in unison with the night than 
at any other time ? ” 

“ Because the two make a chord. The night is 
music,” he answered. 

“ Sacred music? ” 


7 


98 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ Perhaps. Its character depends upon the lis- 
tener. To me it is organ music, — church music.” 

Which church ?” 

“The eternal church.” 

“ Is there any such?” 

“ Do you doubt it? ” 

“ I fear I am a skeptic.” 

“You are with the times. But look out and see.” 

She did not quite understand, but, intuitively, she 
looked from his face to the night a-beat with stars, 
bathed in perfume, hushed as at a deep, grave Word ; 
and again she looked at the peaceful, sad-browed 
man. 

“ They say that out of darkness comes light,” he 
said slowly, as though philosophizing aloud. “ Is not 
that the history of all birth ? And so of skepticism 
and agnosticism. They are healthy states of mind, 
inevitable in the mass of religious systems and falsi- 
ties which obtain. They pre-suppose the reincarna- 
tion of Truth. When the first man first saw the sun 
rise — I do not mean with his physical eye — the seed 
of the eternal church was born — church of Nature 
ending with Man. But the seed is now so over- 
grown and entangled with creed and dogma, opinions 
and discussions, that chaos is naturally the result. 
There must be a clearing made of the overgrowth 
before we can recover the abiding truth, which is too 
simple and radiant to be understood or gazed at 
without blinking. But there ! — as Marcia Laurie 
would say, I am speaking out of order.” 

She was somewhat startled by his easy use of Mrs. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 99 

Laurie’s given name, but there was no resisting the 
gentleness of his smile. 

“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked, her pulse 
beating a little quickly. 

“ Thank you, no. I will just sit here a moment 
longer with you — if you will let me.” 

“ If you will,” she said, a soft flush suffusing her 
face at the unmistakable note of pleasure in his plea. 

He seated himself on the outer ledge, bringing his 
face nearer her vision. Why, she wondered, did she 
feel a pang of pity when she looked at him ? Why 
did she feel this swelling of tears in her throat? 
Music sometimes affected her thus. Was it that 
his face suggested music, or was it only the effect 
still of David Simms’s playing.? 

“You see,” he said, “I always stay on the out- 
skirts of Mayfair. I am not exactly fit to enter in.” 
He looked down on his neat but unsuited attire — 
the gray sack-coat and white neglige shirt. I often 
think I shall stay away altogether ; but the music is 
irresistible, and Marcia says, ‘ Never mind the dress- 
coat,’ and so I generally snatch a pleasant moment 
this way. Is Robert here to-night?” 

“ Do you mean my brother, Robert Gerrish ? ” she 
asked, a faint touch of distance in her tone. 

“ Yes. I knew you must be Barbara Gerrish as 
soon as I saw you to-night — not the night on the 
Common. But — pardon me — I see I have an- 
noyed you. Ah, the name! — it is a branch of 
my little code to call my fellow creatures — those in 
whom I am interested — by the closer name. We 


lOO 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


put too many barriers between one another as it is. 
The whole town, men, women, and children, who 
know me, call me Cyril.’’ 

They have known you from childhood perhaps,” 
she said, somewhat haughtily, without surprise over 
his identification. I find conventions are generally 
social safeguards.” 

“Yes,” he said, “most of them. Perhaps — in 
Mayfair — they are all necessary. But I do not 
belong to Mayfair - — I am of the people. If I seem 
rude, it is through no want of deference.” 

Her face flushed warmly. “ I think,” she ven- 
tured in swift self-reproach, “ that rudeness is a 
matter of tone, rather than of words, don’t you ? 
Then you could not have been rude. Have you 
seen Tot since?” 

“ Thank you,” he said, a slight stain of answering 
color rising to his temples. “Tot? Oh, yes; she 
is a little Dame Trot again. She ran up and asked 
me yesterday where the ‘ Sweet lady ’ was — So 
you have come all this distance to live with Robert 
Gerrish? I am glad of that. Is he well?” 

She looked at him with a flutter of misgiving. 
“ Robert is very well, I think,” she answered slowly. 

He met her hostile eyes with comprehension. “ I 
am afraid you do not understand,” he said gravely. 
“ But when you do, I want you to remember that I 
have tried to be his friend. Forgive me for annoy- 
ing you, I meant no irreverence. Good-night, Bar- 
bara Gerrish.” 

She raised her eyes to his sad, kindly smile, but 


THE JOY OF LIFE. lOI 

before she could find the word he had passed out of 
sight. 

She sat for several minutes wrapped in thought, 
then abruptly remembered where she was, and 
turned about. The room was empty. Where had 
they all gone ? Or — ah, they were in the supper- 
room. She could hear the supper chatter and 
clatter, the popping of corks, the countless evidences 
of joyous life. She felt an uncomfortable alienation 
from it all. She had often experienced this graver 
voice of Self in the midst of merry-making, and only by 
force of will driven it to silence. And now she must 
drive the man’s face and peculiarities from memory. 
She arose and moved about the room, examining 
the bibelots scattered about with minute attention. 

The others came straggling in presently, and she 
was at once taken possession of by Helen Great- 
house and her escort, who, she was not surprised to 
find, was Antony Trent. 

“ We missed you at supper,” said the girl. I 
told Mr. Trent that I had hoped we should find 
ourselves near you, so that I could make clear to 
him the psychologic resemblance I feel you bear to 
him. But he told me to beware all human explo- 
rations. He said it did not pay. He was very 
discouraging.” 

“ Mr. Trent was only philanthropic,” returned 
Barbara, lightly. What was it that cynical woman 
writer said? — something about its being better to 
be a satisfied hog than a disgruntled savant. Mr. 
Trent wishes to preserve your innocence.” 


102 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


All the innocents are abroad/’ laughed Helen. 
“ And I don’t believe that was Mr. Trent’s object. 
I ’m afraid it was — cowardice.” 

It was — partly,” responded Trent quietly. We 
all like to delude our fellows with a sense of mystery. 
We do not care to have our linings examined. In 
the pursuit of Resemblances’ I am afraid Miss 
Greathouse w'ould experience some disagreeable 
surprises.” 

“ Then you think that — except for outward deco- 
rations — we are all made of the same material? ” 
Especially in the lining,” he answered, speaking 
to her, or, rather, into her mentality, as equal does 
when it recognizes equal. 

“Dear me,” said Helen Greathouse, “I begin to 
respect myself.” They laughed as she reared her 
pretty little head in exaggerated dignity; and just 
then some one engaged her for the contra-dance 
which was an institution, and the signal of the break- 
ing up of Mrs. Laurie’s Thursday evenings. Barbara 
and Antony Trent moved aside. He asked her 
whether she cared to dance, because it was an art 
which he had totally neglected ; but he added that 
he would like to have her explain the figures to him, 
and she replied that she would prefer watching it out 
with him. 

They were standing near the piano, and Anna 
Laurie passed them just then and seated herself be- 
fore the keys. “ I am going to play for the dancers,” 
she said, striking chords at random, and turning her 
haggard face with a smile up at Barbara. “ Are n’t 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


103 


you two going to dance? No, don’t, please; stand 
there and keep me company.” She had struck the 
measure now, and the spirited music fell carelessly 
from her fingers. “ I saw you talking to Cyril Trent 
just before supper, and I would not have you dis- 
turbed. I know what a first meeting with Cyril 
means. You did not mind, did you?” 

‘‘ I did not notice,” said Barbara, leaning against the 
piano, and looking winningly down at the weary young 
face. “ I have enjoyed every moment of my evening.” 

“ I am glad,” observed Anna, simply. “ And you, 
Mr. Trent, was it such a great bore after all ? ” 

“ It was a pleasant diversion,” he returned. Yield- 
ing to the pitying instinct which made every one 
zealous to care for the girl, he moved to her other 
side and lightly drew up the dainty shawl which had 
slipped from her shoulder. 

“ And you could not persuade your chum to 
come? ” 

“ My chum ? ” 

“ Mr. Gerrish.” 

Barbara gave a start ; she had quite forgotten her 
brother. 

“ Why, Gerrish never goes out, you know. He is 
quite as great a bear as myself,” said Trent, with a 
quick glance from the dusky face of the girl opposite 
him down to the delicate one looking up. 

He promised,” interposed Barbara. “ Can any- 
thing have happened, do you think ? He said he 
would surely be here at the end of the evening, and 
it is very late now.” 


104 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ Yes, it is late,’’ acquiesced Trent ; “ but he may 
have been detained at the office. He manages the 
editorial department himself, you know, Miss 
Gerrish.” 

She looked abstractedly past him. The girl at the 
piano had slightly drooped her head. 

We can walk home together, if you will,” he 
supplemented diffidently, noting Barbara’s annoyance. 

She thanked him with abrupt courtesy. She did 
not like the situation; it was western, she thought. 
But the Grosvenors came up a moment later, and 
insisted upon her accepting a seat in their carriage, 
so Trent withdrew with a smile. 

“ You will give your brother a downright scolding 
for me,” said Mrs. Laurie to her, as she said good- 
night. Or you might ask him to come and explain 
in person to Anna — she is so disappointed. Take 
good care of Miss Gerrish, General, and don’t forget 
to come for luncheon to-morrow, my dear.” 

Barbara threw back a happy assent. She found 
everybody so surprisingly kind, so evidently desirous 
of giving her pleasure. She thanked the Grosvenors 
warmly when they dropped her at her door. 

Antony Trent was already in the hall when she 
entered. Again she did not like the situation, and 
felt resentful toward her brother for its being. Trent 
had little to say to her, however. He bade her good- 
night at the foot of the stairs, bidding her sleep quickly, 
with no further thought of Gerrish. “ Do you 
always fall asleep at once ? ” he asked with unex- 
pected solicitude. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


105 


“ Sometimes. Why ? ” 

Because I should advise you to to-night. It is 
very late to get into a train of thought, and — well, 
it is better not to think. Good-night, Miss Gerrish.” 

“ Good-night,” she said, turning from him ; and a 
few seconds later she had locked herself into her 
room. The next moment she heard Antony Trent 
go down the hall. What an intrinsic gentleman 
he is,” she thought, recognizing some element in him 
which it was difficult to define. “ I wonder if it is 
that ‘ Puritanic bloodlessness ’ of his,” she reflected 
with a smile. 

She began to undress, feeling a strong disinclina- 
tion for bed. What a jumble of thoughts she had 
entertained that night ! She put her hand to her 
head with a weary gesture. No, she could not sleep. 
She slipped into a dressing-gown, and, picking up a 
book, sat down for an hour’s quiet reading. 

She did not read much. Long, lingering memo- 
ries lay upon her mental vision like sunbeams of 
noon. The face of the peaceful-browed man, his 
eccentric entity, the gentle dreaminess of his efflu- 
ence, affected her now like poppies, now like minor 
music. She found herself presently wondering, fear- 
ing for him, wondering what life would bring to a 
soul so alien to its institutions, fearing what harm 
might befall the dreamer and idealist in a world 
where each man is for himself and the devil for him 
who does not likewise. 

Her eyes fell absently upon the page before her, 
and a sentence which she had been unheedingly 


I06 THE JOY OF LIFE. 

regarding for a long time, spoke grimly up to her: 
“Ici-bas rien n’est complet que le malheur.” She 
wondered whether that were only the reflection of 
one in evil case, or the simple conviction of a phil- 
osophic spectator. Two visions came to her: Joy, 
with radiant face and yearning arms outheld, pleading 
to the fleeting day, “ Oh, still delay, thou art so fair ! ’’ 
and Grief, head bowed on knees and arms fallen 
in impotent surrender at her sides. She frowned 
over the unbidden thought — she often felt herself 
struggling against such picturesque visions — and 
sat up with an abrupt determination to follow Antony 
Trent’s admonition and banish thought in sleep. 

But hark ! What was that ? Ah, the key in the latch. 
Robert was coming in at last. How long he was get- 
ting in ! Perhaps Mr. Trent had locked the door. She 
would go and open for him. She moved toward the 
door — no. He was in. Oh ! What was he doing, 
what was he saying? There! He was coming up- 
stairs. What a noise he made stumbling against the 
balustrade. Her teeth chattered as she stood in sick 
dread. Oh, heavens I he had fallen. She heard a 
man’s quick step approaching, and, turning the key, 
she wrenched open the door, facing Antony Trent. 

“ Go back,” he commanded quietly, above the 
sound of stertorous mumbling. This is no sight for 
you, and you can do nothing. Go back, please, and 
close the door instantly.” 

The authority of his tone impelled her shocked 
senses ; she obeyed blindly, standing stunned on the 
other side of the door. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. lO/ 

“ Come,” she heard him say in a harsh, peremp- 
tory voice. Come, get up, Gerrish.” 

There was a moment’s silence, then the drivelling, 
maudlin tones of her brother’s voice reached her 
sickened understanding. 

“ Wha’ sh-a-madder you, Trent?” he whined, 
sleepily. “ Wha’ sh-a-doing here ? Damn you, Cyril 
Trent — min’ y’ own bushness — drink ev’y blame 
bottle left — if you shtan’ there. You lemme ’lone. 
Kick y’ out o’ Club, you dam hyp — ” 

^‘Silence, Gerrish. Be still, or I ’ll gag you.” 

There was the sound of a lumbering body dragged 
forward. A door closed. A minute later it was 
re-opened ; the quick step went down the hall again ; 
a door was quietly opened and closed, and the vulgar, 
common-enough secret of Gerrish’s dissipated face 
was understood. 


io8 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


CHAPTER IV. 

B arbara arose the next morning, shivering in 
her awakening. What to do with the sorry 
knowledge? She was unacquainted with vice, even 
with this vice in its most fashionable form. She had 
read of it, of course, had heard laughing rumors of 
its presence in the lordliest families, encountered 
bestial glimpses of it upon the street, but had never 
before met it face to face in the person of one known 
to her. And the one who thus presented it to her 
was her brother — her one close relative, the only 
being on earth to whom she was bound. She felt 
suddenly alone again. The slight dependence which 
had stirred in her nature snapped up and left her 
erect. 

She looked out at the morning just awakening 
under the peep of sun, and thought a brisk walk 
might clear her brain. She loved action — it was her 
soul’s oxygen. She plunged into her cold bath, 
dressed quickly, and slipped quietly down the stairs 
and out of the house. 

The purity and freshness of the morning cheered 
her at once. The dewy warmth of the air breathed 
upon her and strove like a moral force to wipe off the 
stain which clung to her consciousness. A happy 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 109 

bird trilled somewhere afar ; from all around came 
fragrant country smells. Her face, stern at the out- 
set, soon became only strongly thoughtful. She 
walked on light-footed. The early morning sunshine 
soon drives Care to its cavern. 

One truth gleamed out to her : she would appeal 
to him. She would make him understand the hate- 
ful enormity of his vice. Warm words, stern, con- 
vincing arguments rushed to her aid : he must 
understand, he should understand. In her inex- 
perience she felt no flaw in her plan. She did not 
say to herself, I am going to kill a strong vice by a 
few strong words ; ’’ there was nothing ridiculous to 
her in the hope. The trouble was that, like many 
other yearning women, she mistook desire for hope. 

Gradually another idea possessed her ; at first 
small and unworthy attention, it shortly assumed 
grave meaning. What was Cyril Trent’s influence 
upon her brother? Evidently baneful. In the short 
harangue against him of that first evening, hate had 
spoken eloquently ; in the muttered blasphemy of 
the night before, she had perceived the perverted 
effect of the man’s ingenuous efforts. If I ever 
see him again,’’ she said simply, to herself, “ I must 
ask him to desist. I shall endeavor to see him soon, 
and I shall not hesitate to speak to him.” Her 
nerves felt firm and secure now. When she turned 
her face homeward, all sentimentality over the fact 
and its issue had vanished. She felt, perhaps, a little 
more solitary, but altogether hopeful in her self- 
reliance. 


1 10 


THE JOY OF LIFE 


Fortunately we live surface lives ; fortunately 
good-breeding has invented a light-weight uniform 
which enables civilized humanity to meet on a placid 
level without suggestion of individual irregularities. 
Discoveries will occur, but most people struggle to 
die game. 

Barbara lunched with the Lauries that day, and 
was her own peculiar, attractive self. In the quiet 
hour afterward, Anna Laurie nestled down to her, and, 
instead of discussing the philosophy of the poets, 
they spoke philosophic poetry, and Barbara read an 
un worded story beneath the other’s naive utterances 
which gave her exquisite pain. 

She was not sorry, therefore, when Helen Great- 
house came in, interrupting them with her breezy 
presence. 

Mrs. Laurie said I should come,” she said, 
standing a bright, piquant figure on the threshold. 
“ May I come in ? You are not to be grave or 
thoughtful another minute. Mrs. Laurie says time 
is up, and I should come in to let you know. Annie 
Laurie — pardon the familiarity, that is what I heard 
some one call you the other day — Annie Laurie, do 
you like lollipops ? ” She put a small box of marrons 
and a spray of lilies of the valley into the girl’s hand, 
and sat chatting gayly with them until Mrs. Laurie’s 
motherly solicitude intervened. 

“ I want you two girls to help me,” she said, ap- 
pearing bonneted and gloved. “ I am going out to 
do some missionary work in the business portion of 
town, and I want the eloquence of your youth to 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


1 1 1 


assist my poor old moral suasion. It is for the 
‘ Refuge ’ you know, Anna, and I must begin to-day. 
So you will sleep awhile, dearie ; it is warm, and 
you must be tired. Would you like to come with 
me, my dears?” 

Both Barbara and Helen were interestedly agree- 
able to her plan, and, bidding Anna good-bye, they 
sallied forth, with some curiosity over their venture in 
begging in these unacquainted quarters. 

In their peregrinations from office to office, Bar- 
bara stepped back in humble admiration of the keen, 
hard-headed volubility which Helen displayed in 
aiding Mrs. Laurie’s more personally persuasive de- 
mands for assistance in their philanthropic design. 

“ We must not forget the Adam Greathouse Com- 
pany,” said the girl, flushed with victory, as they 
emerged from the Granger’s Bank. They keep an 
open account, I know, for these assaults. Shall we 
go now? It is just opposite.” 

It was a hot day, and when they entered the large 
general office, the occupants seemed taking a siesta. 
Morton’s pen snailed up and down mechanically, and 
Morton himself had just bobbed up indignantly — 
a feat he had been performing at short intervals all 
the afternoon — and glared defiance at the poor little 
office-boy as though he had been insinuating un- 
heard-of things. But the glarings glanced harmlessly 
by the poor little office-boy, who, perched on a high 
stool, his head against the wall, had sweetly suc- 
cumbed to the thermometer’s beguilings, and was 
fast asleep, his mouth hospitably open. The two 


II2 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 




Other assistants nibbled their pens and endeavored 
to keep cool by talking of iced drinks. 

Trent alone seemed awake and occupied. He 
had just emerged from the private office, and stood 
now in the doorway, speaking in a low but earnest 
tone to a man who leaned against the lintel, his 
hat pushed from his brow, vigorously chewing a 
toothpick. The three women, having refused chairs, 
stood waiting, apparently unnoticed by Adam Great- 
house’s busy secretary. The farmer, for such his 
appearance proclaimed him, listened attentively, his 
eyes fastened on his shoe-tips, until Trent ceased, 
when the man looked up. The dark face, a little 
more colorless than usual from the excessive heat 
of the day, had lapsed into its wonted expression of 
reserve, as though a spring had snapped and cut off 
further communication. 

Well,” remarked the man, in a loud tone, taking 
the hint and making a move to go, “ I guess there ’s 
no getting round that resolution. Well.” He turned 
back with a grin on his dry, shrewd face, and thought- 
fully scratched the back of his head. “ I guess the 
Railroad Commissioners knew their man when they 
made you their Right-of-way Agent, Mr. Trent. 
You ’re the rock, anyway, that splits our claim to 
smithereens. Well, I’m to tell ’em that’s the 
Directors’ final decision?” 

“ That is about it, Mr. Todd,” replied the secre- 
tary, waiting with courteous distance of manner* 

‘‘ Um-m,” murmured the petitioner, philosophi- 
cally chewing the cud of defeat. “ Well, of course 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 113 » 

you bloated capitalists don’t care a continental about 
being generous to the freight-damned farmers when 
you can. You ’re offering a fair price for the land — 
and I suppose to expect anything more shows what 
fools we are. I guess the millenium ain’t com- 
ing just yet. Well.” He put his head abruptly in 
at the door. Good-day, Cyril,” he called. — “ So 
long, Bill,” came the cheery answer from within; 
and the farmer, with a dignified nod of leave-taking 
to Trent, walked across the room. 

The three women in their dainty summer attire 
fluttered down to Trent just as he turned to re-enter 
the inner office. 

“We have come on business,” said Mrs. Laurie, 
the spokeswoman, with a deprecating smile. 

“ Woman’s business? ” he asked pleasantly, stand- 
ing aside for them to enter. 

“ Yes. Please pretend you are delighted to see 
us — we promise to be brief.” 

As they came in, Cyril Trent, who was sitting at a 
desk at the further end of the room, looked up with 
a quick smile of recognition, and resumed his 
writing. 

Barbara was disturbed by his presence. She felt 
this to be her chance of making some arrangement 
for putting her grave request to him, and yet she saw 
no means of accosting him without awkwardness. 

“We have come begging for our Club-house,” 
proceeded Mrs. Laurie, after they had again declined 
to be seated. “You have read of it, Mr. Trent, 
have n’t you ? The ‘ Times ’ printed two whole 
8 


I 14 THE JOY OF LIFE. 

columns about it. Don’t you think it is a worthy 
enterprise ? ” 

I really must confess complete ignorance,” re- 
plied Trent, glancing in rapid questioning from one 
to the other of the three faces, and back again to 
hers. 

“It was Cyril’s suggestion,” she said, nodding 
down to the absorbed penman. “ Has n’t he told 
you ? ” 

“ I believe not. We seldom discuss philanthropy 
together.” He smiled the fine smile which meant 
nothing, and to which Helen so seriously objected. 

“ Well, could he put in a good word for us now ? 
He can do it so much better than we.” 

“ Certainly. Oh — er — Cyril, will you come here 
a minute? Mrs. Laurie wants you to be her orator.” 
He looked pleasantly toward his brother, who laid 
down his pen and came forward. 

“ What ’s the good cause ? ” he asked, glancing 
toward Mrs. Laurie. The two girls were standing 
somewhat beyond, near the window. 

“ The Refuge Club,” she answered. 

“Ah, yes.” He turned to his brother. He 
seemed to tower over him — the effect of his broad 
shoulders, for he was in reality little taller. “ Per- 
haps you have noticed the number of slatternly girls 
and boys about the wharves, Antony, especially at 
night,” he began readily, standing in sudden rigidity 
near Antony’s desk. “ The Refuge would be a sort 
of Club-house for these young people. Its plans 
include a library and assembly-room combined, two 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


II5 

class-rooms where lectures in the industrial arts may- 
be given, a refreshment-room, kitchen, bath-rooms, 
gymnasium, and emergency dormitory. Many of our 
women have promised to read, talk, and amuse the 
waifs, and David Simms and one or two other artists 
will give them glimpses of and talks on the gentler 
arts. These last offices will be purely voluntary, but 
the patrons aim at regular paid lecturers. The object 
is to make the Club-house more attractive than 
the streets, and, at the same time, to give these worse 
than benighted young people — these nuclei of crime 
and pauperism — some useful industrial and moral 
principles and knowledge. I have not gone into 
detail j you can understand how wide reaching, both 
civilly and socially, such an influence would be, to 
say nothing of it humanely.” 

Trent listened attentively. “It sounds practica- 
ble,” he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Laurie had attended 
in undoubted surprise to Cyril’s dry exposition of a 
plan which he had so eagerly originated and espoused. 
“ It sounds practicable,” said Antony indulgently. 
“ I think we must lend our name substantially 
to it.” He held out his hand to receive the 
subscription-book which Mrs. Laurie tendered him. 

“Mr. Trent?” put in Helen, moving nearer as 
he seated himself and took up his pen. He 
raised his eyes with an inteYested smile to her ani- 
mated, pretty face. “ Please go the entire length,” 
she nodded, showing her dimples. “ This is going 
to be one of my pets. You know how papa treats 
my pet demands, and so, won’t you — ” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


1 16 

‘‘Treat this one accordingly?” he queried with a 
laugh as he dipped his pen. “That is a strong 
argument — stronger than any of Cyril’s, Mrs. 
Laurie,” he added as he wrote. “And what does 
Miss Gerrish think of this western experiment in 
elevating our poor water rats?” 

“It is not a new idea,” said Barbara, watching his 
strong, slender hand as it moved across the line, 
“ except for a few additions. These clubs are no 
longer experiments. They do no end of good, not 
only to the beneficiaries but to the benefactors. It is 
the personal nature of the attempt which makes it 
work well both ways.” 

“Yes,” acquiesced Trent, putting in his decimal 
point with care, “ if one has the time.” He glanced 
past her dark face to Helen Greathouse’s expectant 
one, and returned the book to Mrs. Laurie. 

“ Thank you,” she said, a note of delight in her 
voice as she glanced at the figure and passed the 
book to Helen. “ That is more than generous ; it is 
munificent. Thank you very much, Mr. Trent. 
Come, girls, we must not — ” 

“ Oh, wait,” said Helen, with girlish warmth. 
“ How can you be so forgetful, Mrs. Laurie ! Of 
course this is very nice from the Adam Greathouse 
Company, but what is Mr. Trent going to give to 
sweet charity on his own account?” She looked up 
with charming persuasion. 

Cyril had turned toward his desk, and Barbara, 
who had drawn a step nearer to him, saw his mouth 
set in a severe line of pain, as Trent answered with 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


II7 

distinct directness, “I am sorry to be obliged to 
answer you so, but Antony Trent is not at home to 
any calls of that nature just at present/’ 

Barbara heard no more. She intercepted Cyril 
saying in a low, hurried tone, “ I wish to speak 
a few words to you as soon as possible. Where 
can I see you, say to-morrow?” 

His face was quite pale, his brows drawn ; she felt 
that his thoughts were elsewhere, that he was regard- 
ing her altogether unseeingly. 

“ To-morrow ? ” he repeated heavily. “ Oh, you, 
Barbara Gerrish. To-morrow? Can you come to 
Tot Lake’s — the cottage next the Steam Laundry 
in Factory Lane — at five o’clock?” 

“ Thank you, yes. I shall be there.” She turned 
from him with a ceremonious inclination of the head, 
and joined the others. 

“ Decidedly worthy,” Antony Trent was saying, 
but inopportune for me.” His face had settled 
into impassivity. 

‘‘ As it so often happens,” interrupted Mrs. Laurie, 
with a careless smile of comprehension, putting her 
arm through Helen’s and drawing her toward the 
door. “You have been extremely gracious to us, 
Mr. Trent, and we are extremely grateful. Come, 
my dears. Good-bye, Cyril,” and presently Antony 
Trent was walking with them to the outer door. 

He came back after a short colloquy with Morton, 
his stern face speaking of iron repression. “ If 
you have finished that order to Carlos Jose you may 
go, Cyril,” he said, seating himself at his own desk. 


Il8 THE JOY OF LIFE, 

“ Very well, Antony.” 

After a few minutes the younger man arranged his 
desk, gathered together a handful of letters, and 
picked up his hat. Antony was looking through 
some papers, sitting sideways at his desk, his long 
legs crossed. 

Cyril hesitated. “ Antony ! ” he murmured hoarsely. 

Antony looked up. Their eyes clinched, — the 
blue ones imploring, the gray ones cold, implacable. 
The next moment Cyril turned and went out. 

Trent sat on. For several minutes the page he 
was studying was a hieroglyphic, a bewildering, com- 
posite vision of Helen Greathouse’s surprised, slightly 
scornful face, his brother Cyril’s pleading look, and 
some written words belonging to the limbo of the 
past. He had set his teeth and nerves, but several 
minutes passed before he regained control of his 
attention. The afternoon was almost gone, and one 
by one the men departed. Business was over. 

Trent was alone — with himself. He pushed the 
sheets of paper aside and rested his head in his hand. 
‘‘ An unlooked-for set back,” his thoughts muttered. 
‘‘One of those ridiculous small agencies which one 
never takes into account, and which can spoil the 
plan of a lifetime. The girl looked startled ; such 
an expose is momentous to an impressionable girl. 
Faugh ! It ’s the same old limitations, the same 
old bondage : ‘Your money or your life ! ’ — tautology 
— the one is the other. Why waste time and nerve 
thinking about it? Can’t strike out with all your 
limbs bound.” He set his jaw hard, arose deliber- 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


II9 

ately, locked the office-door behind him, and went to 
get shaved. 

He met Gerrish at the barber’s, and the two men 
took the car. Gerrish was dull and taciturn, and 
Trent made no effort to enliven him. When they 
reached the little villa, they found Barbara waiting in 
the dusk upon the veranda. 

“ Are n’t you rather late ? ” she asked, her face 
slightly pale as she looked toward her brother. 

Guess not,” replied Gerrish gruffly, pushing past 
her into the house. 

She took her place easily at the table a little later. 
She had grown accustomed to her position as mis- 
tress of the house now, and although this was Trent’s 
first appearance as one of the household since her 
coming, his presence was rather welcome than other- 
wise to her this evening, for she feared Gerrish’s 
lowering brow. With Trent’s assistance, however, 
they skimmed safely away from dangerous topics. 

“ Well, for a New Woman,” growled Gerrish, un- 
expectedly, during a pause in their light conversa- 
tion, “ you seem to be remarkably interested in the 
society of this sleepy hollow of a town.” 

“New Woman?” repeated Barbara, ignoring his 
gruffness. “ What do you mean by a New Woman, 
Robert ? ” She spoke gently, as one might to a sick 
child. 

“ Aw — a cross between a something and a nothing ; 
a woman who wants to climb the fence, catches her 
skirts in a nail, and commences to shriek for some 
one to come and help her over.” 


120 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ Gerrish wants to know whether you believe 
in woman suffrage,” interposed Trent, with a palpable 
effort toward softening the other man’s contemptuous 
outburst. 

“ Do I believe in woman suffrage ? ” said Barbara, 
musingly. “ Well, I don’t believe in universal suffrage 
at all, so that stricture would bar out as many men as 
women. I do believe there are as many women as 
capable of casting an intelligent vote as tnere are 
men incapable of doing so. The mere polling of the 
vote does not take much time, you know. Still, you 
need not fear just yet ; probably in a house to house 
canvass you would find only one woman out of ten 
who would care to take advantage of the concession. 
But if only one, are you going to make her miserable 
on account of her sex ? ” 

“Want her to hold office too, eh?” laughed her 
brother ironically. 

“ Oh, as to that, I believe such spoils should be 
restricted to unmarried women or widows without 
children. You can’t be a mother and a President, 
but you might be a mother and a school-director.” 

“ There ’s an idea, Trent. Make the women 
office-seekers take an oath of celibacy. Ha, ha ! Go 
pretty hard with the cause on that basis. You ’re a 
crank, Barbara. You ’re too good-looking to be a 
crank,” he continued, with a return to his wonted 
good-humor as he filled his glass with apollinaris. 
“ If you were homely or twisted there ’d be some 
excuse for you. But as you are, it is n’t fair to 
nature. You ought to be married, making some man 


THE JOY OF LITE. 


21 


happy, and giving to the world strong sons and hand- 
some daughters. That ’s what you were made for. 
Only some woman soured on the world would try to 
persuade you otherwise. No woman voluntarily sets 
out to be a permanent bachelor-maid. The newest 
woman in her heart of heart is as old as Eve, and 
only remains a bread-winner until she becomes a 
man-winner.” 

“ I have n’t taken the vow,” laughed the girl, flush- 
ing over his downright, plain speaking. But I 
think you are mistaken, Robert. I believe there are 
some unmarried women happier than some of their 
married sisters. I hate that phrase ‘ New Woman.’ 
Of all the tawdry, run-to-heel phrases that strikes me 
the most disagreeably. When you mean, by the 
term, the women who believe in and ask for the right 
to advance in education, the arts, and professions with 
their fellow-men, you are speaking of a phase in 
civilization which has come gradually and naturally, 
and is here to stay. There is nothing new or abnor- 
mal in such a woman. But when you confound her 
with the extremists who wantonly disown the obliga- 
tions and offices with which nature has honored 
them, you do the earnest, progressive women great 
wrong. There really are, however, some Providential, 
accidental women who are desirous and capable of 
extending their influence beyond their homes. There 
are some, I say. I am not one of them ; I am a 
traditional woman. I agree with Thoreau in thinking 
that the fate of the country does not depend so 
much upon the kind of vote you drop into the ballot- 


122 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


box every year, as upon the kind of man you drop 
from your door every morning. I believe that when 
a woman turns out a noble son or husband she is 
doing glorious patriotic work ; and a true woman 
asks for nothing better. But think of the responsi- 
bility ! If I were to marry I should want to be — 
well, a fairly decent wife and mother. I cannot do 
things by halves. Have you ever thought of the 
responsibility of bringing a human being into this 
relentless w^orld of chance?’’ 

“ That sounds serious,” said Trent, with interest ; 
and Gerrish muttered, “A good changeling for empty 
arms to hold.” Both men felt the charm of her 
earnest dark face, — Gerrish consciously, with a 
sense of pride in ownership ; Trent submitted to it 
unwittingly. 

“ It is serious,” she said, turning to Gerrish, “ and 
just upon those premises. The selfish carelessness 
with which men and women fling hostages to fortune 
is monstrous. I think our marriage laws are entirely 
too lax — I mean the law which grants licenses to 
individuals to marry. I think both the Health In- 
spector and the Appraiser should have a hand in 
the signature. I think every candidate for matrimony 
should be made to show a clean health and moral 
record, and a certain fixed income or capital. I 
don’t know whether the lawyers would like such a 
procedure, but the country would, — and the uncon- 
sidered children to be.” 

“ By George, there ’s something lacking in you, 
Barbara,” exclaimed Gerrish, in a tone of curiosity. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


123 


You have no sentiment, no romance in your com- 
position. It ’s not womanly. Would you prohibit 
all marriages for love, pure and simple, from your 
Utopia?” 

“ Not if they were backed by substance,” she 
laughed, noting his aggressive expression. Oh, 
I ’m hard, — hard as cobble-stones, Robert, so far as 
my convictions are concerned. And if, of course, 
by * womanly’ you mean being sentimental and 
hysterical, I ’m a freak. I know some women’s 
nerves are left untied with ends dangling, at the 
mercy of every emotional power; mine happen to 
be drawn tight and fastened with a knot.” 

“For the master-hand to untie, eh? I wonder 
what kind of a wife you will make, Barbara,” ventured 
Gerrish, somewhat diffidently after all these earnestly 
expounded theories. 

“ A very poor one probably,” she returned, with a 
half smile into his heavy-lidded eyes. “ I should 
exact so much, you see. I should exact as much as 
I should give. What that would be is not open to 
discussion, brother mine. Fortune so often laughs 
at our most stubbornly maintained ideals, that wisdom 
is in silence. But see, while I have been waxing 
warm, my dinner is growing cold. Why did n’t you 
remind me ? ” 

“ We were selfish,” said Trent. 

He did not linger after his coffee. He said he 
had an appointment with the Directors of the new 
Railroad, and both Gerrish and Barbara strolled out 
to the veranda with him. 


24 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ Full moon,” remarked Gerrish, leaning heavily 
against the rail and looking up. “The woman is 
there in open view.” 

A woman in the moon ? ” questioned Barbara, 
coming to his side. 

“ You might know if there ’s a man around the 
woman is n’t far distant. See her down there in the 
right-hand corner?” 

“ True enough,” she murmured, the golden light 
falling upon her upturned face. “ There she is, 
Mr. Trent, “ showing her back hair done in a Psyche 
knot.” 

“ She is a new woman to me,” said Trent, observ- 
ing the suggested outline. “ She seems to have 
taken a high position for a new comer.” He stood 
for a moment beside her, looking up, then turned 
abruptly to Gerrish, speaking in a low, confidential 
aside to him. Several minutes passed before he 
turned again to the girl, who seemed still absorbed in 
her lunar observations. “ Good-night, Miss Gerrish,’" 
he said. He spoke with unmistakable kindness, 
holding out his hand to her. As she placed hers 
within it he was surprised to see that the lashes of 
this severe woman, whose nerves were fastened with 
a knot, were wet with tears. He turned away with 
disturbed interest, and the next minute was on his 
way to his Directors’ meeting. 

“There goes one in ten thousand,” remarked 
Gerrish as Trent passed from view. 

“Yes, he seems to be a gentleman,” returned 
Barbara absently. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


125 


^^That is hard on the other nine thousand nine 
hundred and ninety-nine,” laughed Gerrish, taking 
out a cigarette and pressing it between his palms. 

“ Is it ? I was not thinking of them, or — perhaps 
I was. Robert — ” she plunged headlong into the 
whirl — “ Robert, what are you doing? ” 

“ Rolling a cigarette,” he answered, elevating his 
eyebrows over her sudden intense gravity. 

“I don’t mean that. You know I don’t mean 
that. Don’t be flippant, please. It is not a flippant 
subject. I was so shocked last night. Robert, what 
are you doing to yourself? Put everything aside — 
for one moment — and look at yourself, face to face.” 

An ugly look gathered in his eyes. “ Really, 
Barbara,” he drawled, “I wouldn’t begin to preach 
if I were you. It is a bad habit. You were very 
charming a while ago when you were lecturing on 
your own domain. But don’t you think you are — 
er — trespassing? The moment a woman begins to 
preach she becomes a dreadful bore.” 

“ I can stand the name. I can only not stand the 
misery of seeing you going morally down to destruc- 
tion. Have you no regard for your honor?” 

“Have you nearly finished?” he asked, an angry 
purple flush dyeing his face. ‘‘ Because, if you have, 
I will say good-night. I am going to the Club.” 

“ Not to the Club, Robert, I implore,” she 
begged, drawing nearer to him. “If not for your 
own sake, then for mine. I need you, Robert. 
I understand now the pitying kindness shown me by 
the men and women who know you. Don’t become 


126 THE JOY OF LIFE. 

the disgraceful wreck you promise. Give it up and 
stay with me.” 

He turned upon her with a sudden fierce gesture. 
‘‘ See here, Barbara,” he admonished roughly, I 
hate interference. I shall live the way it pleases me 
to live. I have no need to account to you for my 
life — nor to any one, by George ! Take things and 
people the way you find them ; or if you can’t, go 
talk to some one who will appreciate your eloquence 
more than I do. Try it on Cyril Trent. Tell him 
he ’d better keep his damned, heavenly, interfering 
face out of my way, — if he knows what is good for 
him.” 

He swung himself round toward the door; but 
before he had taken the step, she seized him by 
the arm, and, with amazing strength, her other hand 
upon his shoulder, held him where he stood. 

“ I am about to betray a woman’s unconscious 
confidence,” she said hoarsely, her face white and 
dauntless. “ I am about to appeal to the remnant 
of chivalry that remains to you in your better mo- 
ments. It is the only thing I can think of, and 
you will respect the breach for the sake of the 
stake involved. I do not know what you were in 
years gone by to that beautiful lily of your valley 
who is dying inch by inch ; but I know that to-day 
you are to her — to her alone — immaculate, noble, 
above reproach. She has made a hero of you. A 
hero — you ! God help her piteous romance ! ” 

The next moment he stood alone, stunned, con- 
fused, angered by her novel expedient. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


127 


The moon bathed him in mellow glow. He seated 
himself unconsciously on the settee at the end of the 
porch. He laughed once, a short, ironic laugh, 
looking down at the boards beneath him. A chill of 
irritation passed over him. He abhorred anything 
approaching sentiment. But he was not a bad 
fellow, — only coarsened by indulgence to an inor- 
dinate passion for a pleasant vice ; too weak to 
desist from what he knew was dragging him every 
day beyond hope of redemption ; too hail-fellow with 
his kind to withdraw from their genial companion- 
ship. It always began simply enough, by the usual 
gradations, ‘First the man took a drink, then the 
drink took a drink, then the drink took the man.’ 
It was only during the past year, when his indul- 
gences had gone seemingly beyond his control, that 
he had gruffly resented any apparent interference, 
and, shrugging his shoulders, let the merry devil 
take its course. 

Yet he was not entirely dead. The very venom 
with which he cursed the attractive figure of the 
younger Trent, who had late come among them, the 
persistence with which he designated him marplot 
and Jesuit, were earnest of the man’s silent moral 
coercion upon him. His presence in the Club 
infected him like an incubus ; he ran amuck in trying 
to escape the power of his eyes. 

Barbara’s shaft had run thrillingly home. He 
possessed a deep fund of tenderness, this happy- 
go-lucky devotee of the cup. He had had a 
distinct liking for Anna Laurie in her merry, healthy 


128 THE JOY OF LIFE. 

budding, had sought her out and made much of her 
in gay good comradeship. All weak and delicate 
creatures appealed to his hearty manhood, and Anna 
Laurie, in her sudden piteous decline, perhaps more 
strongly than any other. Her purity shone through 
her frailty like a star ; it enveloped her like a 
fragrance. He always thought of her as some rare 
flower needing most tender care. That this girl 
cared for him — idealized him — confounded him 
with confused regret. He felt his unworthiness, and 
hot waves of shame swept over his conscience. The 
moonlight lay upon him like the glory of an un- 
earthly, undeserved love. He buried his face in his 
hands ; tip-toed a moment ; and then — to heel 
again ! Five minutes later he arose with a mutter 
and a shrug, and swung down the street to his 
Club. 

And so from hour to hour we grow and grow, and 
yet from day to day we drift and drift. We raise 
aspiring eyes and arms to the high hills and heavens, 
and keep on in the easy familiar places. It is the 
riddle of Nature, the riddle of the Sphinx, — the 
beautiful, uplifted face of her and her animal body 
imbedded fast in earth. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


129 


CHAPTER V. 



DAM GREATHOUSE was thinking. His 


^ daughter had just left him, after a conversation 
which gave him interesting food for contemplation. 
A few moments after her departure he had felt his 
heart beating at a somewhat uncomfortable speed, 
and had called his man Briggs, who brought a small 
vial and gave him a few drops of the contents from 
a spoon. Then he stretched himself out in his long 
chair on the porch, and began thinking more 
reasonably. 

She had told him, after some circumlocution, of 
her encounter with Antony Trent’s conservatism in 
the office, now several weeks gone. “ You know,” 
she said with a puzzled laugh, I had been con- 
templating playing hand-maiden to fate, and draw- 
ing together your distinguished secretary and that 
splendid Barbara Gerrish. They seemed to me just 
made for each other. Do you remember that day 
last year when you gave voice to some very astound- 
ing assertions ? Do you remember saying words to 
the effect that, of course, God might have made a 
more admirable man, but, to your knowledge, had 
never tried ? ” 

“Well?” urged her father with disturbed amuse- 
ment. 


9 


130 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ Well,” she said slowly, a musing look stealing 
into her young face, he does wear well. I began 
to think — before that incident in the office — that 
he might make even a Barbara Gerrish happy. But 
now — I don’t know whether he was restricted from 
limited fortune or limited sympathies, and I should 
not care to precipitate Barbara into the arms of a 
man troubled with either misfortune. But, papa, 
I should think a man in a position of such impor- 
tance would command a decent salary.” 

“ He does,” said Greathouse bluntly. 

“ Well, then — ” 

“A man on a salary can’t keep his hand in his 
pocket all the time,” he interrupted abruptly. “Trent 
has more sense than sentiment perhaps, and he prob- 
ably judged that the call did not warrant any extrav- 
agant display from him. Don’t imagine because he 
failed you in this instance that the man is heartless or 
uncharitable, or any of the other names your enthu- 
siasm might suggest. He only happens to be lack- 
ing in the vanity which might make a smaller man 
pan out to you or public opinion. A business man 
has more daily demands on his bounty or charity 
than you women can imagine, and there sometimes 
comes a moment when he must turn about and be 
charitable to his own interests. Trent is no fool, but 
neither is he a stone.” 

“ Oh, no,” she hastened to assent. “ Outside of 
that once he has been very nice to me — probably 
more through his connection with you,” she added 
with a slight flush of modesty, “ than from any personal 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


I31 

liking for little me ; but he has been very nice to 
me.” She paused, surprised at the sudden recogni- 
tion of his “ niceness ” to her on the few occasions 
when she had met him outside of and in her own 
home. “ He is interesting. Barbara must feel 
that herself. And he is good form, — in an unpre- 
tentious way. Then you think — it would be — all 
right?” 

‘‘What?” 

“ Making them fall in love with each other.” 

Greathouse laughed loud and heartily. “ Little 
girl,” he said, “ don’t meddle with what does n’t con- 
cern you. You make Antony Trent fall in love ! 
Oh, run away, run away I ” 

Helen laughed too, with small feeling of hurt dignity 
as she went upstairs. She liked to consider herself 
of some importance in the lives of those about her, 
and an experiment in match-making offered both 
weight and amusement. 

Greathouse began to think more quietly after his 
man had left him. He was conscious of a sense of loss, 
a sense of jealousy, and a very acute sense of annoy- 
ance against his daughter. He felt as though some 
one had been encroaching upon his interests. It 
was a feeling closely akin to the one which promul- 
gated the late Presidential message against England’s 
further usurpation of American soil. Unfortunately, 
European powers do not recognize the Monroe doc- 
trine as a principle of international law. Greathouse 
was in a like predicament. 

His apoplectic complexion assumed a deeper hue. 


132 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ What the devil does she want to interfere in Antony 
Trent’s affairs for?” he muttered. And then he 
calmed himself with a sarcastic smile over the thought 
of any one’s presuming to interfere in Antony Trent’s 
affairs. Preposterous ! ” he growled under his 
breath, but the vague discomfort remained. This 
girl, this Barbara Gerrish — He frowned over her 
remembrance. She was certainly what Greathouse 
called a fine girl.” Good-looking too — not pretty, 
but possessing a certain attractive individuality 
which was undeniable ; somewhat opinionated per- 
haps ; stubborn at times; although, he conceded, 
her stubbornness possessed a certain charm which 
only a churl would not perceive. And then, living 
as she did in this unconventional fashion, in the same 
house with him — propinquity is a great match- 
maker. Greathouse shifted uneasily in his chair. 
‘‘He would make even a Barbara Gerrish happy.” 
“ Humph ! ” grunted Greathouse, intolerantly. “ Yes, 
and any woman,” came the determined, convincing 
corollary. 

But — was Antony Trent a marrying man ? He 
was old enough, eighteen years in his employ and 
owning to seventeen on the day of his coming — old 
enough, surely. Apparently not a carpet-knight, but 
possessing a good manner with women, — a manner 
which, except for a slight bending to the tradition of 
their sex, was not dissimilar to his courteous, admira- 
ble bearing with men ; a cold, serious man of affairs, 
but a gentleman of high social rating in his little 
world, withal. No doubt one of the most eligible 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


133 


bachelors in Riverton in the eyes of match-making 
fathers and mothers, yet, at the age of thirty-six, still 
unattached. A confirmed bachelor? How should 
he, Adam Greathouse, know? Except for one or 
two slight lapses, he had had no conversation with 
him upon any subject more personal than his salary. 
Come to think of it, most of their conversations had 
been headed with a dollar sign. 

What did he know of Antony Trent personally? If 
he had an instinct beyond the business instinct or the 
keen knowledge of human nature he showed in deal- 
ing with his fellows, he had never displayed it to 
Adam Greathouse. Or — was this the only side to 
him? Nonsense. He had heard that he betrayed a 
fine taste and interest in the arts ; an all-round, level- 
headed insight which enabled him to separate the 
true from the false, the wheat from the chaff, the 
abiding from the transient. “ Except in music, for 
which he has no feeling whatsoever,” Mrs. Laurie 
once told him, I know no man in Riverton upon 
whose judgment I would rely so implicitly.” 

Cold, pulseless, was he ? — Greathouse rather 
enjoyed his communings. — If so, would he ever 
marry? Would simply an attractive woman, such as 
Barbara Gerrish certainly was, win a man of his cali- 
bre from his calm ? Or would he view marriage as 
he would a business proposition? Would he only 
fall in love when he thought the accident ” would 
pay? 

Greathouse felt an exciting, womanish desire to 
find out. Not for this stranger girl,” he thought. 


134 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


with an angry laugh. “ What is Barbara Gerrish to 
me ? What is — Trent — to me ? No, no — he is 
much — everything — except Nellie, of course — 
everything, except Nellie. Why — ” And he began 
playing with his thought, pawing it, rejecting it, 
snatching it, fondling it, as a kitten plays with a ball ; 
and the upshot of his reflections was his going to the 
telephone and asking Antony Trent to dinner. 

His excitement subsided after that. Helen found 
him rather grave and monosyllabic for her father. He 
told her that he had asked Trent to dine with them ; 
and when she informed him in turn that she also 
expected Barbara Gerrish, whom she had asked the 
day before without ceremony, he nodded kindly and 
said nothing. 

Yet, despite the fact of this imagined rival’s pres- 
ence, Greathouse found a piquant pleasure in that 
dinner. Purpose gives the tamest enterprise color. 
He had intended sitting back judicially and taking 
the relative values of his companions, — taking their 
values and deducing possible combinations. But to 
his surprise afterward, he discovered that they had 
constituted him spokesman for the most part, and he 
remembered only that Barbara Gerrish’s dusky face 
had been charming and happy, that her laugh had 
rippled freely, that Trent had lent his voice only 
occasionally, and that Helen had, with naive grace, 
effaced herself as much as her sparkling personality 
could, with seemliness, accomplish. Dessert was 
being served, however, before he became conscious 
of his volubility, and drew in the bit. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


135 


He had been giving them some details in the 
histories of some of the prominent men of the town ; 
and, after discussing Judge Laurie’s abilities and 
foibles, he turned suddenly to Barbara and asked 
how Anna was. 

“ She fluctuates,” returned Barbara, “ one day 
down, the next up and happy. She spoke this 
morning of a European trip in the spring.” 

She will drop off with the falling leaves ; spring 
won’t find her here,” observed Trent. 

“ The Lauries will be inconsolable,” Greathouse 
added. “ 1 think even the judge always made more 
of her than he did of the boy. Odd ! Well, he will 
still have the boy.” 

“ And a very pleasant boy,” put in Helen, brightly, 
dodging the graver subject for one more festive and 
in keeping with the moment. “ We have been plan- 
ning a tennis-match and rowing-race together. 
Speaking of rowing, Mr. Trent, reminds me of the 
river; do you know when the * Nellie ’ will be ready 
for sailing?” 

“ She was promised for September first, — about 
a month off yet. Did you want her for any particu- 
lar occasion ? ” 

“ I thought of giving a boat-party. I want to give 
my namesake a sort of christening, if you think the 
idea is feasible.” 

Why not ? If the weather is fair it would be an 
enjoyable means of entertainment, I should think.” 

“ Yes, it would be delightful if the right people 
come. Of course I shall have to provide at least 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


13^ 

two chaperons ; and with you there, Mr. Trent, I shall 
feel quite at ease, — it will be almost as good as 
having papa.” 

Trent laughed. “ I shall endeavor to live up to 
the part. What are the duties of the role ? ” 

“ Keeping in the background,” Greathouse in- 
formed him, filling his glass. 

“ I am a star at that — with a sympathetic com- 
panion.” 

“ With me — or Miss Gerrish ? ” suggested the 
girl mischievously. 

“ With either — or both,” he responded, raising 
his glass and glancing from one to the other before 
he drank. As his eyes fell upon the bead of the 
golden wine, it seemed to reflect, not his hostess’s 
animated features, but the quieter ones of the dark- 
faced girl opposite who was speaking. 

Give me the water, music, and the night,” Bar- 
bara said, “ and you will find me a decidedly stupid 
companion ; it will require a very forcible shaking to 
bring me out of the doldrums.” 

‘‘ Mr. Trent, I delegate you chief shaker to her 
Majesty, the Queen of Dreams.” 

“ That is as bad as making me chief hangman to 
Pleasure,” he returned, looking across at Barbara. 
“I refuse the nomination.” 

“ Thank you,” smiled Barbara. That is friendly. 
And I hope the position will remain vacant.” 

“ I promise you it shall not if I can induce Mr. 
Cyril Trent to come, — the dream-man as Anna 
Laurie calls him. Do you know, Mr. Trent, I am 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


37 


often tempted to kiss him awake when he is using 
some of his enchantments upon papa. Do you 
think he will come to my party?’’ 

Am I my brother’s keeper ? ” he asked ; but 
before he had finished the trite sentence, a 
faint subsidence in his tone was audible, though, 
perhaps, only to Barbara’s susceptible ear. She and 
Helen strolled off after this, leaving the men to their 
wine and cigars. 

Trent turned the conversation almost abruptly to 
some details concerning his contemplated trip to the 
Islands. Greathouse answered absently and shortly, 
as though the question were of no concern, and one 
with which he wished to have done. Leaning upon 
the table and fingering the slender stem of his glass, 
he said unexpectedly, for all his leisurely tone, — 

‘‘ By the way, Trent, about what was the profit in 
the lumber-yard last year, roughly estimated ? ” 

After a moment’s reflection Trent gave him an 
approximate figure. 

That is an advance on the year preceding — 
about how much?” 

“ About ten per cent.” 

Ah — hm-m-m. Well, I was thinking I ought to 
make some relative changes in the men’s salaries. 
Not belonging to a combine we can indulge more 
readily in a propensity of that sort. Sounds like 
some of your brother Cyril’s talk, but I mean it ; so 
give the whole force a ten per cent raise, and 
choose, for yourself, between a change to ten thou- 
sand a year, and a five per cent interest in the lumber 


138 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


profits, together with your present salary. No hurry. 
Take your time to decide, but make the changes as 
soon as you can.’^ 

It was an unforeseen move. Trent turned white 
to the lips, and raised his glass to hide his disturbance. 
“ This is unexpected, Mr. Greathouse,” he said 
finally, in his usual undemonstrative fashion. Have 
you fully estimated the cost of such wholesale 
generosity ? ” 

“ Nothing generous about it. A man can only 
spend his money once, — especially a man without a 
son. A rich man needs a son, Trent.” The finger 
which knocked off the ashes from the end of his 
cigar trembled feebly. ** Especially when he ’s got 
an estate like mine to leave. Gad, sir, what ’s the 
good of giving your whole life over to money-making 
if you Ve got to leave it to strangers in the end.” 

“You forget. You have a daughter,” reminded 
Trent in courteous surprise. 

“ Yes, I have a daughter,” returned the rich man, 
leaning his head back upon the cushions of his chair. 
He looked out bitterly before him. “ Well, there ’s 
no use crying over what ’s gone. I was thinking 
to-day, Trent, that I ’ve got to make out my will.” 

“ I was under the impression you had done so 
long ago.” 

“Nineteen years ago, yes. That was before the 
boy died. I tore that up this afternoon.” 

“ Ah.” 

“ I must draw up another.” 

“ You will want an attorney for that.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


39 


“ Oh, damn attorneys ! I want you.” 

Trent, his head resting in his hand, felt the tense 
cords of his temples tighten. He said nothing. 
He was used to Greathouse’s profanity. 

“ As you said,” the latter continued, “ there ’s the 
girl, there ’s Helen. What is she going to do with 
it all after she has it ? Buy a doll husband who ’ll 
show his talent by spending in humbug what I ’ve 
given my whole life to acquire ? Sweet thought that, 
Trent — using your wits for a witless stranger pos- 
terity. I ’d like to hand over a million or so to her 
before I clear out, and see what sort of investment 
she would make. What d’ ye say ? ” The hot blood 
mounted threateningly to the old man’s face. He 
seemed to see double ; he was drunk with restrained 
impetuosity. 

‘‘That would depend upon Miss Greathouse’s 
clear-headedness,” returned Trent lightly. “ Gen- 
erally speaking, I should advise no man to put off his 
clothes until ready for bed.” 

“ Yes, but one wants to be doing something be- 
sides staying dressed. It would be rather an interest- 
ing experiment in financiering.” 

“ A rather costly one.” 

“ Not necessarily.’’ 

“ For Miss Greathouse, yes.” 

“ Not necessarily.” 

“ Not if it were only a matter of business.” 

“ It is a matter of business.” 

“ Not for Miss Greathouse.” 

“ Well, for the man, then. Helen aside, how do 


140 THE JOY OF LIFE. 

you think such a proposition would strike a desirable 
young man? ” 

“ Straight in the head.” 

It would strike you so ? ” 

Me ? I have never given matrimony much 
thought, Mr. Greathouse. It is not in my line.” 

“Not upon such terms?” He smiled excitedly 
into the other’s pale, quiet face. 

“That is rather a staggering question. A rather 
delicate one too, don’t you think?” 

Greathouse turned a deep, purple hue. “ Well,” 
he said, crushing a nut with his heavy palm, “ I 
wanted to get your opinion. Just think about it in 
your leisure, will you ? And give me your decision 
before I make out that will. It will give me an idea 
of the probable value of such a proposition to others. 
Here’s to Nellie’s investment.” He drained his 
glass, his eyes looking over the brim into Trent’s 
with smiling meaning. 

Trent looked on. He knew that Fortune, in the 
guise of Greathouse’s ardent desire for a trusted 
steward for his moneys and his daughter, stood at 
last before him with full paunch. But something, 
the social instinct, his innate refinement perhaps, 
withheld him from seizing it in open rapture. At 
any rate, an apparent innocence of the old man’s 
personal drift seemed, for the time, the seemlier part. 

Had Antony Trent’s heart been used to singing, it 
would certainly have sung its great hallelujah then. 
But his was not a singing heart. It was a sedate, 
well-regulated organ, which, with one exception, had 


gone on its daily way without any manifestation of 
rejoicing or despair. 

He walked home with Barbara Gerrish that night, 
conversing in his usual gentlemanly, non-committal 
way as though the greatest episode in his ambitious 
career had not just presented itself. He was glad, 
however, that she was not a woman who exacted 
a constant stream of conversation. Mixed with 
his sense of haven in sight was the thought that 
the girl whose hand lay within his arm possessed 
a peculiar congeniality. Probably in all his life 
Antony Trent never enjoyed a walk more than he 
did that one when his dream of success lay so 
close within his grasp, and Barbara Gerrish walked 
so close beside him. 

To Barbara the walk was quite colorless, — quite 
colorless except for the fleeting glimpse she caught 
of a tall, athletic figure swinging on in the crowd of 
Factory Lane, as she and Antony passed into quieter 
streets. 


142 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


CHAPTER VI. 

S HE said to herself, “ How his face and voice 
ring on in the memory ! 

She said it the evening of the day after her meet- 
ing with him at little Tot Lake’s cottage. Afterward, 
when she thought of that meeting, there was always 
a vagueness about it, — the vagueness of a shadowy, 
pictured city showing only its towers and turrets 
through a gold-shot mist. She remembered that there 
had been sweet talk with the child, and something 
of a pleasant nature passed with the horny-handed 
widowed father, Lake the cobbler. She remembered 
that Cyril Trent had been singularly at home in the 
lowly abode, and yet had seemed to fill it with an 
extraordinary beauty and brightness. She would 
never forget how, when he raised little Tot in his 
arms to kiss her good-bye, the child had buried her 
small hands in his soft thick hair, and cried, Oh, 
the pretty gold ! Oh, the pretty gold ! ” and Cyril 
had laughed out his frank, boyish laugh, which, for 
all its happiness, always ended in a quick note of 
sadness, as though its light had been cut off by a 
sudden reminding shadow. 

They were walking slowly together through the 
quieting streets before she broached the object of 
her meeting him in this unconstrained fashion. 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


143 


have solved your conundrum of the other 
night, Mr. Trent,” she said in swift directness. 
“ The denouement has been played, and many 
things have been made plain to me. Let us not 
discuss its horror, please. I have a favor to ask you. 
Kindness of purpose sometimes acts malevolently. 
I know, through instinct, that your interest in my 
brother’s welfare is purely humanitarian, but I must 
ask you to desist.” 

He threw back his head and searched her face in 
surprised uneasiness. “ Will you — can you explain 
more fully?” he asked, with undisguised intentness. 

She answered without evasion : “ It is through 
my desire. I have learned that your " interference,’ 
as he calls it, only angers and goads him further.” 

Strange,” mused the man beside her, in a pained 
voice. “ I had thought only to help him. I have 
never spoken to him — in words — to that effect, I 
have only dared to look warningly at him, hoping in 
that way to put the brake on his madness.” 

“But don’t you know,” she reminded gently, de- 
siring to make him understand from the lowlier 
standpoint, “ don’t you know that vice resents 
nothing more violently than the reproach implied in 
the presence of opposing virtue ? ” 

“Virtue?” 

“As represented in your personality,” she said 
simply. 

He turned sharply upon her, his face going cold 
and gray. “You jest,” he said impetuously; and, 
with a quick pressing together of the lips, he walked 


144 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


on without speaking for several yards. Presently, 
as if throwing off a burden, he raised his head with 
one of his sudden sunny smiles. “ Tell me what 
you wish of me,” he said quietly. “ It is hard not 
to ‘ interfere,’ as you say he calls it, when the need 
of it is so urgent, when it lies just within my hand, 
and no one else seems to oppose him. Are you 
quite sure you wish me to let him go } ” 

Quite. I know I can trust you. I know you 
would not wish to stand between any man and his 
successful career.” 

“/ — stand between a man and success ! /stand 
between a man and success ! ” He began to walk 
so rapidly now that Barbara was at trouble to keep up 
with him. He only slackened his pace when they 
reached the Common, when he stood suddenly, and 
looked steadily down into her raised eyes. She 
noticed that his face held a trace of weariness. “ I 
could not do that,” he said almost breathlessly. “ I 
shall remember. Our roads separate here. I have 
something to attend to in town and must turn back.” 
He raised his hat. “ You have been very kind, Bar- 
bara Gerrish,” he added. 

Oh, no,” she returned in a pained tone. “ I have 
hurt you.” 

“ Hurt me ? ” he repeated in surprised cheeriness. 
‘‘How could you hurt me when — when you have 
trusted me? This ostracism does not extend from 
you too, does it ? ” 

“ That was a needless question,” she replied, hold- 
ing out her hand. He made a movement to take it ; 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


45 


but before their fingers touched, a stormy wave of 
color swept from his throat to his brow, and his 
hand fell again to his side. 

Good-night,” he said courteously, and he turned 
sharply away. 

She wondered why he had done that, but she only 
repeated more concernedly to herself, “ How his 
face and voice ring on in the memory ! ” 

She said it to herself in the evening of the day 
she met him crossing the meadow just before the 
woods. She saw him coming along with a small 
boy, who carried a basket on his arm. He swung 
his hat gayly when he observed her, and they 
stopped to speak. 

“ Hank and I are going to do our marketing,” he 
said, offering her a quivering little lily poised like a 
butterfly on its stem. “ I found that this morning 
on the bank of my river-bath, and vowed I would 
give it to the first child I passed. You are the for- 
tunate early bird.” 

“ Child indeed ! ” she gayly mocked, drinking in 
its elusive fragrance while she fastened it into her 
button-hole with her disengaged hand, the other 
being occupied in holding up her skirt from the dew- 
kissed meadow grass. ‘‘ How fairy-like it is ! Well, 
Hank seems to have a pretty commodious basket 
there.” 

“ It will have to supply three pretty commodious 
appetites, won’t it, Hank?” he laughed, his white 
teeth, clear eyes, and pure skin gleaming with health. 

“ I should think so,” laughed the small boy, wrink- 


lO 


46 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


ling his freckled nose whimsically. No flies on 
George’s appetite.” 

Cyril laughed heartily. ‘‘ Well, we won’t stand 
here any longer putting riddles to Miss Gerrish. Till 
we meet again, then.” He raised his hat and the 
boy’s simultaneously, looking with a deep, swift glance 
of pleasure into her face, and walked on, cheerily 
whistling, Oh promise me,” a then popular song 
composed of an unusually sweet melody set to ridicu- 
lous words — the latter, however, the whistling only 
suggested. 

Barbara held a theory that only happy, conscience- 
free men whistled. Often at night when she heard 
a belated passer-by whistling his way homeward she 
thought to herself, There goes some happy fellow.” 
Long afterward, when she looked at the shrivelled 
semblance of the lily which then trembled on her 
bosom, the exquisite melody of^‘Oh promise me” 
floated back to her across the dew-kissed meadow, 
and the morning and the flush of life again thrilled 
through her. But then, as she went joyously on, 
only the flashing thought of the poet swept over her 
like the rhythmic rush of a wing : — 

“ I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 
And a certain use in the world, no doubt. 

Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone 
’Mid the blank miles round about : 

For there I picked up on the heather 
And there I put inside my breast 
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 

Well, I forget the rest.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


147 


Mrs. Black, serving her an hour later with break- 
fast, remarked the lily upon her bosom. Mrs. Black’s 
volubility was quite incorrigible. She believed that 
when two speaking bodies came together they should 
speak, regardless of relative stations. The bump 
regulating social precedence was quite lacking in her 
republican brain, and Barbara always listened indul- 
gently to her unending, oft-repeated dissertations 
on the families and individuals she had served and 
cared for. She had grown accustomed to lending 
an eye to her newspaper and an eye and ear to Mrs. 
Black during her solitary breakfasts, when the house- 
keeper’s attentions seemed most effusive. 

“ Yes,’’ she nodded now in answer, buttering her 
toast with care, “ it is beautiful. An old friend of 
yours gave it to me.” Oh, wily Barbara ! 

“ A friend of mine. Miss Gerrish,” beamed the 
good dame, her arms akimbo, after passing Barbara 
the berries. Who might that be now*? ” 

The younger Mr. Trent — Mr. Cyril Trent.” 

“Well, now, did you ever! — Mr. Cyril indeed! 
He always was for finding out the darlings. ‘Mrs. 
Black,’ he ’d say, ‘ there’s winterberries for you, and 
laurel — I got them up the mountain ; ’ and he ’d 
bring out every crock and glass in the closet to make 
the house ‘ happy,’ as he ’d say. He was always for 
making things happy — was Cyril.” And she plunged 
into a sea of recollections which sent the blood 
dancing in. Barbara’s veins, but over which she shook 
her head resignedly, thinking with an indulgent smile, 
“ How she does run on ! ” 


148 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


She met him now and then in the gloaming on 
Anna Laurie’s or Adam Greathouse’s porch, now 
and then in the heart of town — mere snatches of 
meetings which left little in the memory save a trem- 
bling radiance like a starry wake. 

And once she entertained him in her own library 
in ordinary, conventional fashion. He had come in 
toward evening for a book, of which he had spoken 
to Antony, he said, and he found her writing at the 
table. The urn was steaming over the spirit-lamp 
in the corner in expectation of tea, and Barbara 
insisted upon his having a cup with her. 

He sat down beside her, and they were quite 
cosy. Upon her permission, Cyril played chirog- 
raphist from the scattered pages of her writing 
before him, and read her character curiously well. 

•‘You are guessing now,” she protested when he 
averred that she was strongly emotional. “ You 
know I pride myself on my practicality.” 

“ Pride must take its fall some day, some way, 
and even grow black-and-blue over it,” he returned, 
with a teasing shake of the head. “ I told you you 
were self-contained, mistress of yourself; you mis- 
take effect for cause ; you are not naturally practical, 
— you are intensely emotional.” 

“ I shall take that as a warning,” she decided. 
“ And what other bad things do you see in my loops 
and terminations ? ” 

“ Do you call that ‘ bad ’ ? ” 

“ Certainly. Emotion is primitive ; the more we 
possess of it, the nearer we are to our four-footed 


THE JOY OF LIFE 


149 


predecessors, to our simian ancestry. To be collo- 
quial, no human being who considers herself cultured 
cares to think she is likely to ^ cut up monkey-tricks ’ 
— even under provocation.” 

Cyril laughed. “ I never thought of the analogy 
before,” he said. “ But don’t be disturbed. Those 
short terminations save you ; you will ‘ cut up mon- 
key-tricks ’ only in your depths. You can’t escape 
nature, you know.” 

No, but sometimes we can cheat her. Have you 
finished your tea? Pass me your cup, and I will 
read you your fortune in the dregs.” 

‘‘ No,” he resisted, putting his hand over the cup. 
“ I prefer to have mine read when I have reached 
the dregs.” 

But just for fun,” she pleaded, and he yielded. 
She came and stood beside him, and with pretty im- 
portance and puckered brows, bending over the faint 
sediment, she told him that it was all quite vague ; 
that there seemed to be a straight, unbroken line ; he 
would not travel much, she thought, until he came 
to a bar; she could not distinctly discern what it 
was, but it seemed to have filmy appendages, like 
wings. 

“An angel,” he suggested. “ Good or bad?” 

“ Can’t say,” she responded slowly, peering into 
the fragile hollow. “ But might it not be — a woman, 
or — Cupid ? ” 

A faint flush reached up under his skin as he met 
her arch, merry smile. He shook his head, drawing 
the cup from her hand. “ You are reading fairy- 


50 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


tales now,” he said with a short laugh, and I don’t 
believe you know a word about it.” 

“ Oh, but I do,” she assured him earnestly. 

But Cyril had risen and was looking for his book, 
and the short moment was over. 

She walked out to the door with him, and as they 
came upon the veranda, Gerrish, and Antony Trent, 
and Deschamps, the great French landscape painter, 
who was taking a stroll round the world, came leis- 
urely up the steps. There were a few words passed. 
Barbara saw the sudden light of appreciation which 
burnt into the artist’s eye when it fell upon Cyril 
Trent. Superb ! ” she heard him murmur under 
his breath, as, with wilful impulse, she went down to 
the gate with him, yielding to an incomprehensible 
resentment against the air of worldly complaisance, 
the badinage they brought, the glimpse she caught of 
Deschamps’s evening dress. 

Later, at the table, her cheeks burned hotly, her 
tongue was brilliantly, volubly cynical, as though a 
tiny sword had been unsheathed. The artist accepted 
her delightedly, Gerrish and Trent with uncomfort- 
able surprise. 

You are an anarchist to-night,” said Trent, in a 
low, remonstrating voice, as he opened the door for 
her later. 

Croesus was n’t, nor — the Angel Gabriel,” she 
flashed back. 

She moved swiftly through the hall and up the 
stairs. She was glad to get away from their talk, and 
buzz, and light. Her quiet shadowy room seemed a 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


151 


welcoming refuge. She reached her open window 
and threw herself upon her knees before the case- 
ment. She leaned far out into the starry night. The 
strange, unreasoning resentment would not down, 
and she found herself putting her hand to her throat 
as though to choke down a sob. It was wrong, all 
wrong, her conscience murmured passionately. Why 
should he be debarred from the amenities and human 
delights of life? Why should he be lonely, and 
apart, and cut off? For he had seemed so to her, as 
he passed away in his humble attire. Her spirit rose 
in arms against it ; she wished she could have spread 
her arms about him and so have shielded him from 
the appearance of loneliness and lowly estate. It 
was the fierce, protecting, proud, maiernal instinct 
underlying the great love of every good woman, 
which struggled within her. Oh, my love, my 
love ! ” she murmured, as, in passionate rebellion, 
she flung out into the dewy night the dusky rose she 
had unconsciously crushed against her cheek. 

And Cyril Trent, walking under the stars, his hand 
upon the shoulder of the youth who strolled beside 
him, speaking of Orion’s flaming belt, bewildering 
Lyra, and the dancing, spectral Pleiades, paused 
abruptly in his walk, and looked with a start about 
him. 

What is it? ” questioned the boy. 

Roses,” he said quickly ; “ the breath of a rose 
swept across my face just then.” 

“ I did not feel it,” said the lad who walked be- 
side him. 


52 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


CHAPTER VII. 


ND meanwhile they apparently kept on the even 



tenor of their lives. Day glided into day and 
month into month, and autumn came in its savage 
gorgeousness, and brought lingering, brooding hours 
of beauty to enhance both the dream and the 


battle. 


Up in the Lauries’ luxurious home on the hill the 
lily-girl was slipping into the shadows. Little River- 
ton walked on tiptoe past the house when it no longer 
saw her swaying in her hammock, fearing that a rude 
footfall might loose the white soul from the ethereal 
body. 

Day after day a bunch of valley-lilies found its way 
into the shadowy hands, and whenever, for excess of 
joy and weakness, she would silently point them out 
to Barbara, the latter looked toward the fairy bells 
as toward a savior, and the fear which haunted her 
from day to day would for the moment subside. 
But, once without the influence of the sick-room, the 
remembrance of the countless nights, during which 
she had sat waiting in dread for the delinquent foot- 
step which, as often as not, remained away altogether, 
returned to her in forcible bitterness. It is easy to 
leave a standing order with your florist,’’ she thought, 
with sad keenness. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


153 


In her endeavor to draw him more firmly to her 
she had adopted numerous little arts and beguilings 
which gradually grew to be her most striking features. 
From the somewhat brusque, coolly observant, self- 
sufficient girl who had come in the spring, she had 
merged into a gentle, wistful-eyed woman ; even her 
peculiar swiftness of motion had given place to a 
slower grace, as though she had been taught to await 
another’s pleasure. And yet she had not changed so 
much as she had developed ; circumstance had only 
awakened the dormant possibilities of the woman. In 
the soul of the dullest may sleep the germs of a hero 
awaiting the reveille trump. In their occasional 
canters up lanes and across meadows (Barbara was 
an excellent horsewoman), in the novelty of her 
presence, in her consummate tact and management 
of not obtruding herself upon the established order of 
things, Gerrish had come to honestly care for her. 

But you are just a little too good for me, Bar- 
bara,” he said, one day in a burst of recognition and 
confidence, framing her face with his hands and look- 
ing with droll helplessness into her eloquent eyes. 
“You ’re a brave love of a girl, by Jove ! and I ’m a 
hopeless sort ; and — you ’d better throw me over. 
I know you think I ’m a despicable fool, but you 
must remember there’s no accounting for tastes.” 
And with his usual rough manner of caressing, he 
crushed her face against his shoulder, smothering the 
undesired words and leaving her with a dare-devil 
laugh before they could be uttered. But in his more 
ordinary humors he mentally dismissed her with the 


154 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


appellation of ^‘little Puritan,” or ‘^unsophisticated 
spoil-sport.” In this material age it is easy finding 
contemptuous epithets for the virtues which would 
condemn our most delightful vices. Talk of the 
moral influence of woman ! There are a thousand 
and one other stronger influences abroad in the 
world of men to laugh that presumption daily to 
shame. Out of the twenty-four hours of the day, 
Barbara was with her brother perhaps two — a small 
proportion to set against the whole. Besides, she 
was only his sister — neither his love nor his wife; 
hers was an imposed relationship ; it had neither the 
divine grace nor the indescribable spiritual compul- 
sion which lies in the ties of choice and affinity. 

With her fine, critical practicality she felt her 
inadequacy. “ He is indifferent to my judgment,” 
she thought, with that cold resignation of heart which 
attends a slow-moving, inevitable decision of hope- 
lessness. But outwardly she gave no sign of waning 
fortitude. 

Helen Greathouse’s contemplated river-party had 
been delayed from week to week until this last 
Saturday in September, when the Indian summer was 
at its heyday and the moon promised to be at its full. 

“ It will be a perfect night,” said Mrs. Laurie, in 
the morning, as she came out of Anna’s room with 
Barbara and stood for a moment’s converse in the 
doorway. “ I was sorry not to be able to help 
chaperon the affair, but Mrs. Grosvenor will be a host 
of duennas in herself. You will come in to-morrow 
to tell Anna all about it, won’t you?” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


155 


“ Of course I shall/’ she laughed pleasantly. 

There is nothing I enjoy more than retailing the 
details of a pleasure of that sort, especially to one as 
appreciative as Anna. I am not a gossip, but I do 
enjoy scenting possibilities and commenting on the 
deportment and appearances of those worth noticing, 
don’t you?” 

“ Honestly, yes, and we won’t call it gossip until 
it degenerates into spitefulness. Until then let us 
call ourselves commentators. But, speaking of gossip, 
I suppose you have heard the latest interesting rumor? 
It concerns your house.” 

“ My house ? ” repeated Barbara, opening her 
eyes in innocent wonder. 

“ Mr. Trent,” returned Mrs. Laurie, “ Mr. Antony 
Trent.” 

“No!” murmured Barbara, giving a frank, an- 
swering attention. “What is it about?” 

“ They say he is paying very marked attentions to 
Helen Greathouse.” 

“ Indeed 1 But then I don’t suppose it means 
anything more important than a worldly sense of 
dutiful interest in his employer’s daughter. They do 
not seem at all suited.” 

“ My dear, that daughter will some day be one of 
the wealthiest heiresses in the State.” 

“ I thought you liked Antony Trent.” 

“ I do. I admire him immensely, but that does 
not prevent my understanding his stand in such an 
issue. He is the most thoroughly consistent man I 
know.” 


156 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


Ah,” mused Barbara with comprehension. ^‘What 
a cold-blooded consistency it seems. And yet, if it 
— the rumor — takes form, I have no doubt he will 
make an admirable husband.” 

“ Admirable is the word,” responded Mrs. Laurie, 
holding Barbara’s hand in good-bye. “ You won’t 
forget Anna's message, will you?” Her tired face 
flushed slightly over the question. 

Barbara pressed her hand in response. 

She was thinking of this tidbit of worldly gossip, 
and of the romance of Anna Laurie’s faltering re- 
quest, as she sat under the peach-tree that afternoon, 
nibbling her pen reflectively before beginning her 
weekly letter-writing. 

The peach-tree stood on the back premises, its 
great, spreading, unpruned branches sprawling over 
the ground at their own untamed will. A rustic table 
encircled its trunk, and a number of rustic chairs stood 
near. The late fruit hung heavy from the branches, 
the downy crimson and luscious gold cheeks exhaling 
a delicious peachy fragrance. Through the sunny 
leaves she could see the roof of the stable. Now 
and then the groom’s voice reached her in spasmodic 
exclamations to the horses. Otherwise, all was still. 
Not a trace of cat or dog disturbed the air of deser- 
tion about the Gerrish grounds ; the unused kennels, 
huge chicken-house, and rather commodious pig-sty 
claimed no occupants. Gerrish’s tastes were not of 
the bucolic, domestic variety — a fact for which Bar- 
bara was duly grateful in the heat of the brooding 
peach-fragrant air. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


157 

She dipped her pen again and leisurely wrote the 
date. Then she began : — 

My dear friend,” — 

She paused in doubt. Her pen re-accentuated 
the comma, retraced the ‘^M,” redotted the “i,” hesi- 
tating absently before proceeding. She was afraid it 
would not be a happy letter, and Barbara was always 
carefully studious not to allow any depressing mood 
of the moment to creep into her distant communica- 
tions. The sadness of her thoughts showed itself in 
the drooping corners of her mouth. 

Robert had not come home the night before, and 
experience had taught her that his appearance in the 
evening would not be reassuring. She was beginning 
to chafe under the haunting fear, in conjunction with 
which Anna Laurie’s feverish, gentle plea that he 
should come and sing for her the following evening, 
had seemed bathotic and grotesque in the extreme. 
In her abstraction, she pressed the point of the pen 
so deep into the gnarl of the table that it snapped in 
two, and she threw it down, leaned her elbows on the 
table, and sank her chin upon her clasped hands. 

Her impotence assailed her with impatience. Some 
other chastisement than her woman’s wordy or silent 
beseechings was requisite ; some man’s powerful influ- 
ence ; not the fine moral influence of Cyril Trent, she 
thought with a rush of strong emotion ; he, Robert, was 
not open to such suasion — and she put him resolutely 
aside. At the same time his brother’s cold, courteous 
personality presented itself as the friend of Robert Ger- 
rish, a friend to whom Gerrish paid staunch, unstinted 


58 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


admiration and homage. Perhaps, if appealed to, he 
would use his influence more actively. If not, there 
were the Cures — if he cared. There lay the trouble 
— he did not care. She drew a long breath of irreso- 
lution, setting her teeth against her natural abhor- 
rence of appeal of any sort, and the knowledge that 
a failing of that nature is tenacious as a leech. 

At that moment she heard a slow step behind her, 
and she looked hastily around. 

“ Why, Robert ! ” she exclaimed in glad surprise 
as he drew near. 

He wore an air of weighty gravity. His hat was 
pulled low over his nose ; he walked with some hes- 
itation. As he came up, he made a low, sweeping bow. 

Barbara looked at him with a sense of fear the 
while he seated himself heavily beside her. “ Has 
anything happened?” she asked at length in con- 
trolled anxiety. 

“ I desire to speak to you, if you have the leisure 
to attend.” Her heart thumped painfully ; this 
carefully stilted diction, the elaborate courtesy of his 
manner, the pallor of his countenance, were all so 
contradictory to Robert’s usual careless, unpolished 
self that her wondering alarm grew proportionately. 
“Your pardon,” he added after a moment, removing 
his hat and placing it upon his knee. What did this 
unnecessary display of etiquette portend ? Why was 
he so slow to speak? Or was he merely giving him- 
self time before divulging some shocking news? 

“ I wish you would go on,” she said, vehemently. 
“ This delay is very inconsiderate.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


59 


Do not excite yourself,” he advised quietly. 
‘‘ I have approached you in the character of your 
guardian, with no ulterior motive in view than that 
of your welfare. Have we the premises entirely to 
ourselves ? ” 

She looked around through the drooping branches. 
“ Entirely,” she returned, with blanched lips. 

“You understand that what I have to impart is 
strictly confidential?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Last evening I saw you walking through the 
Common with Cyril Trent.” 

“Well?” 

“It is of your connection with this man that I 
desire to speak.” 

“ My connection ! ” 

“ I desire it to cease.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ I will repeat : I do not wish your connection 
with Cyril Trent to continue. I will countenance no 
dishonor.” 

Her cheek flushed hotly, her eyes blazed with 
anger. “ You are insulting,” she retorted distinctly. 
“ I want you to take back those words.” 

“ Impossible.” 

“Take back those words or — explain yourself.” 
Her temper was roused ; her face was dark and 
threatening. 

“ I meant no insult to you. I wished to warn 
you. That man has a history, — an unsavory one.” 

“Who told you that?” 


i 6 o the joy of life. 

I know.” 

Who told you, I asked Where did you get 
your knowledge?” 

‘‘ Instinct told me.” 

“Pooh! ” 

“Instinct — the child of experience — you cannot 
cheat it. Why does he pursue this sham of mod- 
esty ? Why does he not make himself known beyond 
this hole, with the talents he is supposed to pos- 
sess? Why did he leave a lucrative berth for one 
so obscure — at a night’s notice? That man is a 
scoundrel.” 

“You are speaking of my friend. Take care.” 
She spoke in deadly calm now. 

“ You must be his friend no longer.” 

“ Indeed ? I have always found myself capable 
of choosing my own friendships.” 

“You must renounce this one.” 

“ I shall not.” 

“ You shall.” 

“ Are you crazy? ” 

As she said the word a sudden suspicion took her, 
and she looked at him more closely. She arose with 
distended eyes. “ You are drunk,” she ejaculated, 
with a mixture of physical fear, relief, sorrow. “ You 
are drunk, sir.” 

He regarded her with tipsy gravity. Then he 
arose unsteadily to his feet. The effort was too 
much for him, however. He lurched forward over 
the table, might have fallen prone had she not caught 
him by the arm and almost steadied him. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


I6l 


Stand up ! ” she ordered roughly, holding him 
at arm’s length with a muscle of iron. 

He began mumbling to her maudlin, endearing 
terms which sickened and shamed her. She pushed 
him forward, striving to close her hearing to the 
sound. He tottered backward in her hold, and 
suddenly fell headlong over a trailing branch of the 
peach-tree. He lay quite inert, and, to add to the 
ignominy, his head rested just within the opening of 
the pig-sty. 

“ Behold the man ! ” she thought, with miserable 
perspicuity — “the noblest work of God — drunk in 
a pig-sty ! ” 

And then a startling idea seized her — to leave 
him there ; the shock of the lesson, the sensation 
of degradation ! Yes, yes. She turned feverishly 
away, gathered up her writing materials, and flew 
from the place in mad haste. 

She locked herself in her room as though to evade 
a pursuer. She tried to stifle the memory of his 
drunken words ; but who is impervious to such whis- 
perings? Fancies, to which she had given no form, 
now sprang live, full-breathing at this touch. She 
walked the floor as though trampling, stamping out a 
foe. Metaphorically, she raised her hand against her 
own disloyalty. “It is a lie,” she said with stern 
conviction. But the thought of Robert lying out 
there rushed in upon her and turned her violently 
from the wretched thought. 

Suppose the groom, the cook, Mrs. Black, a trades- 
man — who not? — should see him there! Love 
I r 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


162 

aside, pride will always seek to guard the infirmities 
of its possessions from the ridicule of alien eyes. 
It is, perhaps, one of the selfish, cowardly attributes 
of love, but from it emanate some of the most 
pathetic tragedies of history. There is nothing in 
life more tragic than its silences. 

“He is your brother,” came the voice, and all the 
growing tenderness within her welled to her con- 
sciousness. She turned to the door with human in- 
consistency, and crept stealthily downstairs. There 
is nothing in life more consistent than incon- 
sistency. 

She must get him into the house before a possible 
discovery — this was her one concern. She came 
upon him, white-faced and dauntless. 

“ Robert,” she called, bending over him ; “ Robert.” 

He gave no sign, and she shook him by the shoul- 
der with like ill success. She wrung her hands in 
agony as she looked despairingly down at his heavy, 
handsome proportions. “ I must rouse him,” she 
decided ruthlessly, and she went in search of water. 
Five minutes later, dripping, blinking, swearing, he 
opened his eyes and attempted to sit up. 

“ Come,” she said, putting her strong arm beneath 
his head, “ come, you have fallen, and I must get 
you to your feet.” Her glorious strength manifested 
itself in her desperate struggle with his brutish help- 
lessness. Pale and panting, she finally got him upon 
his feet and held him there. Then, putting her 
shoulder under his, her arm about his girth, she led 
him on, resisting his desire to sit down, guiding his 


thb: joy of life. 163 

footsteps, bearing his weight, as only trained muscles 
and heroic courage can accomplish. 

She did not relax till she had brought him to the 
door of his room, when, utterly spent, she pushed 
him toward the divan. He lunged to the bureau, 
and as he clutched the edge, he caught sight of his 
own face in the glass and raised his fist to strike. 

Barbara sprang to stay him. Le’-go,” he growled, 
turning upon her with a glimpse of sobriety, and 
throwing off her arm. 

“ Yes, Robert,” she faltered, more afraid of him 
in this state than in his utter senselessness. “ But 
go to the couch and lie down.’’ 

Unthinkingly, she had put her hand upon him 
again, and, before she could evade the blow, he had 
seized a silver-backed brush and thrown it at her head. 

She stood stunned, unmindful of the pain, gazing 
in bewilderment at his white, threatening counte- 
nance. Then she turned and went silently away, 
closing the door securely behind her. 

She walked into her room, moved involuntarily 
over to her dressing-table, and looked at herself. 

I am cut,” she addressed her image, confusedly 
regarding the long, straight wound in her temple. A 
drop of blood fell upon her hand. “ Dear, dear ! I 
must dress it at once.” She shivered, as though suf- 
fering from an internal bruise ; but her eyes were 
bright and dry while she bathed and dressed the 
wound, and applied the adhesive plaster with firm, 
practiced fingers. 

I hope it will not show,” she thought as she 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


164 

fluffed her soft hair over it in the same dazed, im- 
personal manner. 

She glanced at her watch and saw that it was time 
to dress for dinner. Antony Trent will be home,” 
she thought, proceeding with her toilet. 

She heard him come in shortly after and go to his 
room. An hour later she met him in the library. 

This is the night of the boat-party,” he observed, 
as they seated themselves opposite each other as 
usual, after they had repaired to the dining-room and 
she had explained that they would not wait for Robert. 
She was oblivious of “ the situation ” to-night. 

“ Yes,” she said, while Ching passed the soup ; 
but the little start in her voice was not unperceived. 

“You are going, are you not?” he asked, looking 
at her quickly and picking up his spoon. 

She was eating with mechanical indifference. 
“No,” she returned. “I do not feel — I do not 
feel in the mood.” It was impossible to prevaricate 
in the slightest degree under his level glance. 

“ Miss Greathouse will be disappointed.” 

“ Perhaps,” smiled Barbara. She put down her 
spoon and gazed in wide-eyed abstraction before her. 

Trent finished his soup absently. The great bunch 
of red carnations upon the table filled the room with 
spicy fragrance ; the windows were thrown open, and 
the night air tempered the heat of the softly shaded 
lamps. Trent had never seen Barbara in just such 
a mood before. She was rather pale, too, and a 
certain tremulous humility made her unconsciously 
appealing. Trent felt the piquancy of the hour. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


165 


“ And Mrs. Laurie will not be present either, I 
hear,” he remarked, as the soft-footed Ching, alter 
serving the trout and filling his glass, retired to the 
background of the pantry. ‘‘ Imagine the impro- 
prieties her absence will encourage.” 

She toyed with her food, but made no response to 
his lead. “ It will be a very lovely evening,” she 
said, with an effort at being companionable. “ Helen 
has shown exquisite taste in her arrangements.” 

I think it will be pleasant. But you are not eat- 
ing, Miss Gerrish.’^ 

“What time do you start?’’ she asked, ignoring 
his polite solicitude. 

“ At 8-30 sharp. The moon will be up by nine. 
I trust nothing has occurred to spoil your pleasure 
and appetite. No bad news?” 

She shook her head, speechless for a moment. 
Then, “ I ’m afraid you are not enjoying your din- 
ner,” she said, striving to forget herself. “ In a 
solitude d deux good-fellowship demands that both 
parties be agreeable ; so give me a little of that 
wine and I will be happier with you. It looks so 
bright — no, no, don’t. I don’t want any.” 

He hesitated over her capricious demands and 
put the bottle down. Ching came and went with 
the savory viands, unnoticed by her; she seemed 
removed from her surroundings. 

“ You are childish,” he reproached her pleasantly, 
a novel, personal feeling stirring him to unusual 
gentleness of expression. There was a faint touch 
of red in his thin, dark cheek. “ Come, you must 


1 66 THE JOY OF LIFE. 

taste this squab. I guarantee its excellence. As a 
favor ? ’’ 

“ How insistent you are ! Well, to please you, 
then — although I don’t feel — in the mood.” 

“Mood? Is appetite a mood? Do you know 
you use that word rather unduly often ? ” 

“Do I ? That is because I think so much of life 
is dependent upon it?’’ 

“ But it is controllable.” 

“ Oh, yes, if we knew there was anything to con- 
trol. But we generally give in thoughtlessly enough. 
We are often unjust through mood, Mr. Trent.” 

“ Yes ? I do not think I am.” 

“ And we are often too merciful through mood. I 
was thinking the other day that even Love, Love 
with a great big capital letter, is the result and sport 
of mood. Don’t you agree with me ? ” 

“ I have not given the subject much thought.” 

“No? I suppose women do think about it more 
than men. Having the leisure they paraphrase the 
subject, as it were, and draw it out to the bitter end. 
Leisure is a great mischief-maker. I am glad I have 
been a working-woman. It is healthier — sometimes. 
Sometimes ! You see — there it crops up again ; 
everything is good or bad according to your mood. 
But about this Love — I will give you the benefit 
of my leisure communings on the subject during the 
past few months. I believe Love is a carefully- 
nurtured mood — a developed mood. If a man or a 
woman answer your mood of the moment, the feeling 
might grow to Love if you fed it well. Therefore, in 


every being there are possibilities of several kinds of 
Love. Love is a Mormon.” 

“ You are talking so much that you have forgotten 
to eat again. And you are talking rather wildly.” 

Her cheeks were vividly flushed, her eyes brilliant. 
She was beautiful. Trent’s senses acknowledged it. 
He had never thought her so before. 

“ Miss Gerrish,” he said, leaning slightly toward her 
and speaking in a peculiarly low tone, ‘‘ put your 
mood aside and come with me to the river-party 
to-night.” 

She leaned her elbow on the table, her head in her 
hand. She picked for a moment at some bread- 
crumbs beside her plate. “ Mr. Trent,” she began 
in soft-voiced sadness. Then she paused. He was 
regarding her in intent quiet. “ Mr. Trent,” she 
went on, raising her eyes, and, to his dismay, he saw 
they were dim with tears, “ do you consider yourself 
a friend of Robert Gerrish?” 

I have always considered myself so.” 

^^Then how can you let him go on in this fashion 
without offering a protesting word.? How can men 
do such things and profess to be friends ! How can 
they ! how can they !” 

‘‘ I am ready to do what I can for you, if you will 
tell me what that is.” 

He admires you ; your good opinion is valuable 
to him. If I were a friend to a man, if I saw any 
man I cared for going down-hill — going to ruin and 
— dragging the happiness of — others with him — I 
should interfere — I should force him to draw up.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


1 68 

« How?” 

“I should speak to him.” 

I have spoken to Gerrish.” 

“ What have you said, — told him he had better 
desist?” 

Words to that effect.” 

Have you ever shown him contempt ; have you 
ever threatened to withdraw your friendship if he 
persisted ? ” 

Robert Gerrish’s friendship is of great value to 
me.” 

But—” 

Men do not quarrel so easily with their good- 
fortune as you would advise, Miss Gerrish.” He was 
looking at her now with steely brightness, honest and 
firm as usual in thus stating his life-tested convictions. 

She regarded him in startled questioning. “Not 
to save a friend from destruction?” she murmured 
protestingly. 

“ One might not save the friend — and so would be 
wantonly throwing away something valuable. In 
nine cases out of ten it would be merely a losing 
proposition. A foolish proceeding.” He smiled at 
her with what Helen called his ready-made smile. 

She met his eyes with a wondering look. “ I am 
disappointed in you,” she said slowly. 

The colorless, excluding expression settled upon 
his face. “ It is a mannerism of mine to tell the 
truth about myself, — at the risk of losing the good 
will of many whose good will I desire.” He appeared 
and felt both cold and distant. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 169 

He arose soon after, but she made no movement, 
looking abstractedly before her. 

“ Good-night, Miss Gerrish.” His voice sounded 
unfamiliar, gruff, even to his own ear. 

“ Good-night, Mr. Trent,” she answered coldly, 
without glancing toward him. 

He walked to the door, turned with his hand on 
the knob, and came back to her. Miss Gerrish,” 
he said quietly, “ it distresses me greatly to part from 
you in this — mood.’’ He laughed shortly over the 
word. ‘H will do my best with Gerrish, in my own 
way.” 

She looked thoughtfully up at him. “You are 
very kind,” she said courteously. 

Will you give me your hand ? ” He held his out 
toward her, and with a fluttering smile she placed 
hers in it. He bent over it a second, and passed 
hurriedly from the room. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


1 70 


CHAPTER VIII. 

S HE sat in dreary solitude. She felt distant, re- 
pulsed. Yet what right had she to expect a 
concession of such magnitude from a comparative 
stranger.? He had been only singularly honest in stating 
his views and refusal, and she had been too weak to 
support it. The man’s logic of egoism compelled 
her reluctant approval. After all, she thought, we 
have no right to obtrude our burdens upon others. 
It is “ Kentucky treat ” all around, and each has his 
own obolus to pay. The god of grief knows no 
nepotism — of each he demands recognition some 
day, some way. Salute and pass on in silence. 
After you — the next ! 

Her head was throbbing ; she felt weighted with the 
pain of the world and her own loneliness. Feeling 
herself choking, she arose hurriedly and walked 
blindly into the library out of the reach of eyes. 

She gave her weariness and dejection full play as 
she threw herself into a chair and indulged herself in a 
dull fit of crying. Barbara had allowed herself few 
such indulgences. She was too healthy, too active ; life 
had demanded fortitude and self-possession of her in 
all things at all times ; her very being had depended 
upon her own self-control; her interests had been, 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


17 


up to her coming to live with her brother, the fruits 
of her own ventures and abilities — hers was a strong, 
silent, self-reliant nature, asking quarter of none. It 
is a bitter truth that, as soon as we come out of our 
shell and cast in our lots, hopes, and fortunes with 
another, we come the sooner to grief. Barbara’s 
strength was not sufficient to keep her brother in step 
with her. 

With her head on the library table, her arms flung 
out, she sobbed on dully. And after the storm was 
spent and only an occasional moan disturbed her 
prostrate form, she felt wistful as a child who longs 
for comforting words and caressings. In this state, 
her tear-swollen eyes gazing into the shadowy ob- 
scurity, she yielded to the imagined voice, the imag- 
ined touch and tenderness of the only one for whom 
in her weakness she yearned. She smiled sadly over 
her foolish doubts of the afternoon, and presently she 
was comforted, and she sat up in hushed gentle- 
ness. 

In the reaction of feeling, she remembered with 
startled self-reproach that she had promised Cobbler 
Lake to bring a glass of jelly that afternoon to his 
little fever-stricken Tot. The events of the day had 
left her wholly oblivious to any need but her own. 

I will go down with it now,” she thought, a musing 
softness passing over her tear-stained face at thought 
of the sick child. “It is half-past eight,” she re- 
flected. “ The party will be off, and I shall meet no 
one whom I know.” 

She was not afraid of the night, and in the 


72 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


moment’s necessity of being about something, of 
escaping from the house and its fearsome occupant, 
she gave no consideration to the unconventional in- 
dependence of such a visit at that hour. She stole 
breathlessly upstairs, got her hat, jacket, and gloves, 
and was soon walking in almost an ecstasy of calm 
down the deserted avenue. 

The streets in tlie heart of town were filled with 
the usual Saturday-night crowd, but she scarcely 
realized the presence of others as she kept on her 
way, and came at last into the small cottage where 
the child tossed in the fever born of the marsh. 
Her coming with the cooling jelly was welcome and 
delightful to the little invalid, and Barbara, after 
refreshing the fretted body, took her in her arms 
and sang both father and child to sleep, and her- 
self to ease. The short, ministering visit soothed 
and strengthened her, and when she came again into 
the street, she felt quite herself. 

She walked on, her head held high, with her usual 
unconscious dignity. She had little thought of self. 
Had she felt any, she could not have passed so fear- 
lessly through the low, rowdy-infested portion of the 
town, where the noisy Saturday-night revellers were 
now in full war-cry. A man reeled past her, and 
when she started aside another leered in her face. 
The blood dashed into her cheeks as she realized 
her position. She felt common, degraded. She 
felt that this day and night had robbed her of her 
delicacy. She wanted to run, and just then a 
quiet, manly voice said beside her, “ Do not be 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


173 

afraid. I will walk with you till you are out of the 
crowd.” 

She glanced gratefully up at him. Her pulses 
had bounded excitedly at his unexpected voice, and 
then subsided restfully. She forgot the day, forgot 
Robert, knew only that this picturesque man of peace 
walked beside her under the autumn moon. 

They spoke only fitfully until they came out of 
the noise and hilarity. Then she said, “ Have you 
not been well, Mr. Trent ? ” 

I ? ” he asked in surprise. “ I am in perfect 
health. Why do you ask that ? ” 

You look as though you were tired — or troubled 
— and somewhat thinner, I think.” She flushed 
warmly over her own shy solicitude under his glance ; 
she could not tell him that the beauty of his face had 
assumed a painful spirituality in her eyes. 

“I think it is yourself that is not well,” he re- 
turned slowly, his swift glance travelling over her face, 
which still bore faint traces of tears. 

Perhaps,” she said. “I — I have not been very 
happy to-night, and sometimes we color everything 
in sight with our violet mood. There ! I have used 
that intrusive word ‘ mood " again. Your brother 
objects so emphatically to it.” 

Antony ? He has no use for it. He is a strong, 
independent man. But you — ” 

I am a woman. But you — do you not acknowl- 
edge its subtlety? Do you not think it is often 
Fate’s most powerful agent?” 

Ah, yes ! ” he answered, the words coming almost 


like a cry. Then, after a moment, “ But I am no 
authority.’’ 

‘^Why are you not an authority? Why not so 
much one as your brother?” 

Because — have you never heard people say 
that I am not a man ? ” He was looking deep into 
her eyes with a quiet smile of questioning. 

‘‘Why are you not a man?” she demanded 
quickly, almost roughly ; and then she added, play- 
fully, “ Because you are a — god ? ” 

He paled under her banter. “That is a merry 
bull,” he returned. “No, I am not a man they 
say, because I am a dreamer.” 

“ It takes all sorts to make a world,” she pro- 
tested, lapsing into her old swiftness of speech. 
“ We cannot do without our dreamers. What sort 
of a machine-shop would this be without its poets 
and dreamers and idealists? We need a few who 
can think a little higher than their heads. We can- 
not do without you and your sort.” 

“That is a woman’s notion.” 

“ Why are you so sad to-night? ” 

“ I am not sad.” 

“ But you seem to have no care for, no part in, 
the Joy of Life.” 

“ The Joy of Life ? What is that? ” 

“ It is — I do not know. I have not found it 
yet. What I have found has generally proven — a 
mess of pottage.” 

“ And yet, I think there must be some such thing. 
Yes, there must be some such thing.” He passed 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


175 


his hand across his brow. “ I have sometimes 
thought — Some day 1 will tell you what I have 
thought.” 

“ Some day is no day.” 

“ Why are you so sad to-night? ” 

I am not sad. I am — I have only been feeling 
very lonely. Do you never feel that way ? ” 

“ Only when in a crowd.” 

She did not ask him to explain. She could have 
put out her hand and touched his in understanding, 
d'hey seemed walking together in a world apart, 
where speech was not of voice. 

When they reached the gate and she stood with- 
in, she said, as though continuing, “ Sometimes I 
am lonely under the moon, but never under the 
stars.” 

“ Nor by the thundering sea.” 

“ Nor when 1 hear great music, or — ” 

“ When the twilight comes.” 

They looked away from each other, and as he 
made no further rejoinder, ‘‘Good-night,” she said, 
reaching her hand to him over the gate. 

He turned with a start, made a movement, and 
folded his arms close. His face had grown still and 
gray. “ Good-night,” he said lifelessly, and he 
raised his hat. 

The passionate blood rushed to her face. “ Mr. 
Trent,” she said, “ why do you do that? Why will 
you not take my hand?” 

“ Because I am not — because I do not choose 
to,” he responded huskily. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


176 

You make me feel very small. Don’t you think 
me worthy of taking your hand ? ” 

Barbara ! ” 

Her heart stood still ; but before she could draw 
breath, he had turned abruptly and left her. 

Under the moon, Barbara laughed softly, tremu- 
lously, to herself. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


177 


CHAPTER IX. 



HE was not afraid of him now as he turned his 


^ surly white face toward her at her call. He 
was sober. 

“ I should like to speak to you for a few minutes, 
Robert,” she said. “ Will you come into the library ? ” 

He followed her in silence and stood waiting in 
unconcealed impatience, for her to speak. 

I have a message for you,” she said, standing 
tall and unbending before him. It is from Anna 
Laurie and — ” 

“Aw. — rot ! Don’t sing that song again,” he inter- 
rupted brutally. “ Save your sentimentality for your- 
self. Is that all you wanted ? ” 

“ The girl is dying,” she went on in pale imper- 
turbability, “ and I must deliver the message, whether 
you care to receive it or not. But for the sake of the 
sender, and taking into account your present condi- 
tion, I think I shall first say a few words for myself. 
You were drunk last night.” 

So?” 

“ You were beastly, brutishly drunk. You came to 
me under the peach-tree and said disgusting, inde- 
cent things to me. Then you fell into the pig-sty.” 

“ You are quite dramatically realistic,” he said 


2 


78 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


with forced nonchalance, a swarthy color dyeing his 
flabby cheek. “ I beg pardon for the indecency. It 
is impossible and useless for me to say it will never 
happen again.” 

Her slender hand shook as it rested upon the table. 
“ No,” she returned quietly, “ do not say it. It 
would be useless. But — I am going away.” 

Eh? ” He turned more fully toward her, open- 
ing his dull eyes uncomprehendingly. 

“ I cannot live with you, Robert. You evidently 
do not care whether I am happy or not, and as I can 
do nothing for you, I prefer being by myself.’^ 

By the way,’^ he broke in, as though not hearing 
her, how did I get out — of the pig-sty? ” 

‘‘ I lifted you out.” 

His face turned a darker red. He looked at the 
tall, strong-limbed girl with dull shame. “ You should 
have left me there,” he laughed shortly. 

“ Yes.” 

‘‘And so you want to throw up the situation, eh?” 
he went on with another mirthless laugh. 

“ I don’t want to, Robert,” she disclaimed in swift 
passion. “ I don’t want to go away and be alone 
and leave you alone. I want to stay with you more 
than I can explain. But you have forced me to it. 
Robert, last night you struck me.” 

His hand went out as though to ward off a blow ; 
his face put on a deathly, sea-green hue. 

“ You struck me,” she pursued relentlessly, “ with 
the appurtenance of a gentleman, — with a repoussU 
silver-backed brush.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


79 


He stared at her with dazed eyes. It ’s a lie,” 
he groaned miserably. 

“ No, it is true. See — the ridges have left a 
purple gash upon my temple.” 

“ It’s a lie,” he repeated foolishly, his eyes fastened 
upon the spot. 

‘‘No, it is no lie, Robert. And so I am going 
away.” 

He turned uncertainly toward the door, but again 
she detained him. 

“ Wait a moment,” she said. “ I have not de- 
livered my message yet. Anna Laurie wants to see 
you to-night ; she wants you to sing some of the old 
songs to her. I know you will go, because — well, 
because she has only a few days more to live, and 
you are not quite as brutal as you seem. Good-bye, 
Robert.” She held out her hand. 

He caught at her dress. “ Don’t go,” he muttered 
hoarsely. “ Don’t go, Barbara. Give the beast 
another chance. Can’t you forgive and forget?” 

“Yes. But I am weary of doing the forgiving, 
while you go on doing the forgetting without let or 
regret. But you are going to Anna’s, Robert?” 
She drew her gown firmly from his fingers. 

“ Barbara,” he said in uncontrolled passion, shak- 
ing the door as though he would have shaken her 
from her firm moorings, “ if you go away with that 
mark on your face, you will drive me to hell. By 
heavens ! I never struck a living thing before. 
The sight of blood, of pain, sickens me. You know 
I did not mean to hurt you, Barbara.” 


i8o 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ I know/^ she said sadly. You did not do it, 
but I am not going to chance its recurrence. I am 
not a patient, martyr-natured woman. I shall never 
offer a sop to your unstability by accepting it with 
resignation. 1 owe myself something more than 
that.’’ 

He turned despairingly from her and threw himself 
face downward on the couch, his hands clasped in a 
vice over his head. 

She hesitated. For all her stern hardness, her 
face was pale and drawn with pain. She drew nearer 
to him. “Will you go to Anna’s, Robert?” she 
reiterated steadily. He did not answer. She heard 
a dull moan, and she put her hand on his shoulder, 
leaning her face closer. “ If you will go to Anna, I 
will stay till to-morrow.” 

He pressed his face deeper into the cushions, and 
so, knowing when to desist, she left him. 

She did not see him again until the next morning, 
when, for the first time since her coming, they break- 
fasted together. He was quite pale, and his eyes 
were darkly encircled ; he spoke in a hoarse, quiet 
voice. It seemed to Barbara that, despite his silence, 
his bearing had acquired for the hour an unaccus- 
tomed dignity. 

They were just rising when Mrs. Black brought in 
a note on a salver, which she passed to her young 
mistress. 

“It is from Mrs. Laurie,” Barbara hurriedly an- 
nounced, glancing at the address and tearing open 
the envelope. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


8 


Dear Barbara, — [she read] Anna passed away 
last night. It must have happened while Robert was 
singing. We thought she was asleep. And so she was. 
There is a smile upon her face. 

Marcia Laurie. 

Barbara sat moveless a moment, quieting her 
emotion. 

When she turned to Robert she saw that he stood 
at the window, looking out, his back to the room. 
She arose presently and handed him the paper with- 
out speaking. She stood with her hand upon his 
shoulder while he read. 

For many minutes they stood thus, and then he put 
his hand up to hers and pressed it. Thank you,” 
he said in discordant hesitancy. Barbara felt a closer 
kinship for her brother in the gentle pause which 
followed than she had ever before felt for him. “ I 
think I am going away for a few days,” he said after- 
wards in a quick, nervous manner. I must get out 
of the town. Will you stay till I return ? ” 

“Here? In the house? You forget Mr. Trent, 
Robert.” 

“ I can tell Trent. He will take a room in town 
for that time.” 

“ No, don’t say anything. I shall go down and 
stay with Helen Greathouse. I have often promised 
her.” 

“ Very well. Then I will say good-bye.” 

“ Wait till I put on my things. You can walk 
with me up to Lauries’ ? ” 

It was California’s Admission Day, and the little 


i 82 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


town wore a quiet holiday aspect. As they walked 
up the pretty avenue, lined on either side with stately 
poplars whose silver was turning to russet and gold, 
she remembered Antony Trent’s words, “She will 
drop off with the falling leaves,” and wondered over 
the proving of the prophecy. 

Robert said good-bye to her at the gate. “ I can- 
not go in,” he said. “I — I shall write to Mrs. 
Laurie, and — er — will you see that a net-work 
of valley-lilies — you understand — is sent to en- 
velope the — That is all, I think. Take care of 
yourself, and — ” He wrung her hand hard. 

This bringing forth and putting away of souls ; 
this moiling, and toiling, and bringing of axes that 
never are ground ; this loving and losing, this hop- 
ing and despairing ; this divine cheat and its ugly 
brother fact ; this sorry, necessary business called 
Life, in which man is so earnestly engaged, — whither 
tends it? What means it? Is it worth while? — 
Who can say? For the day dies with its rags and 
tags of unfinished work, unfinished hopes, unfin- 
ished crimes, unfinished glories ; but eternity, which 
knows nor birth nor death, nor rest nor ceasing, 
winds on, unmindful of our littleness, yet forgetting 
naught. 

Toward evening, as Barbara, after her quiet min- 
istering, came out of the grief-stricken house and 
took her way down the avenue, the evidences of 
alien, indifferent, self-engrossed life harked strangely 
back to her. Men were walking briskly, children 
were playing merrily, women were driving or saun- 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


183 


tering by on social affairs intent. This was health, 
she thought, this outer activity which defies the inner 
brooding. 

She drew long breaths of the soft, warm air; she 
set herself to forgetting the sorrow of the day, — 
she did not believe in sitting down on a dunghill and 
giving herself up to sadness. The health of the 
world demands another face. Besides, in her inmost 
heart, in her intimate seifs heart, she was not sad. 
The lovely lily-girl had passed, but Barbara believed 
that, in her strange, sweet passing, she had called to 
a reckless man a compelling “ Halt ! ” This little 
beating hope, and another dim, remote glory within 
her, painted her cheek and lip in the soft rose flush 
of well-being. 

As she walked down the quiet main business 
street, she saw Antony Trent hurrying up the cross- 
road, and, to her pleasure, he perceived her, raised 
his hat, and came toward her. 

“You seem to be in a hurry,’' she observed as 
they continued along together. 

“ I am. I have just received an important tele- 
gram concerning a tremendous wheat deal, and must 
consult with Mr. Greathouse. Are you on your way 
there? ” 

“ Yes. What a fortunate thing it is to be a busy 
man. I wish I were one.” 

“ A selfish wish.” 

“ Don’t,” she begged. “ Compliments are not at 
all becoming to you.” 

“ Why not?” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


184 

Oh, because they are not your metier — • I can^t 
find the English word.” 

“ What is my metier t ” 

Well, wheat deals and such things — making 
money. Is n’t it? ” She stole an arch smile at him, 
and was surprised to see him frown. “ There ! ” 
she added quickly, I was impertinent.” 

“ No, you were quite correct. Well, do you think 
making money a despicable profession ? ” 

“I think it is the best thing a man can make, 
except, on occasion, one other thing.” 

‘‘ And what is that ? ” he asked, with keen interest. 

She gave a half-smile of mischief. “ Making love,” 
she returned. 

He laughed, somewhat awkwardly. “ Rather cloy- 
ing for an occupation,” he remarked. 

“ I said, ‘ on occasion.’ ” 

Ah, a sort of interlude.” 

Or, at least, a finale.” 

She spoke at random, and Trent colored with anger 
over the conscious start within him. However — 

I will take that under advisement,” he said with 
a faint touch of sarcasm, as they turned the corner. 

I was only * drolling,’ as Howells says,” she 
affirmed, with a sudden change of tone. “ It was 
the reaction of the day’s events. I have just come 
from the Lauries. You know it is all over for Anna ? ” 
No ! ” he murmured. Then, thoughtfully, ‘‘ It 
does seem a pity,” he added, “for a girl who 
loved life as she did, — especially one in her worldly 
position.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


185 

More so than for one less favored of fortune ? ” 

“ Without doubt.” 

“ Perhaps you are right.” 

Coming up the walk, they heard voices from the 
veranda ; and when they reached the steps they saw 
Greathouse, Cyril Trent, and Helen, sitting there in 
cosy converse. 

Trent, after a quick greeting and a few low words 
to Greathouse, withdrew with him to the other end 
of the porch. Cyril had risen at their approach, and, 
upon Barbara’s taking his proffered chair, seated him- 
self on the veranda railing. 

She noticed, with swift concern, that he looked 
pale and ill, although he spoke in his usual cheery 
voice. They had just had tea, and Cyril still held 
his cup in his hand. 

** That was excellent. Miss Greathouse,” he said, 
while Helen unpinned Barbara’s hat. “ Some Mon- 
day afternoon you — and Miss Gerrish — must come 
up to my cabin, and I will brew you some in return. 
I cannot promise you so royally dainty a cup, but 
the tea will be good. Will you come?” 

“ It sounds delightful — just like a lark. I shall 
love to come, if Barbara will chaperon me.” 

“Oh, it would be quite regular,” smiled Cyril. 
“ Monday afternoon from five to six is my lecture- 
day, and any one comes, you know. To-day is an 
off day. Well, then. Miss Gerrish, shall we say a 
week from to-day ? ” 

“It will be charming, as Helen says,” she an- 
swered lightly. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


1 86 

Thank you. You will supply all the charm, and 
I the tea. Annie Laurie and her mother have often 
‘ tea-d ’ with me in that way.” 

“Anna — you have heard, of course?” she said 
simply, looking more directly toward him. 

“ No.” 

She told them of the girl’s peaceful ending, and a 
few minutes later Cyril arose and took leave. 

“ One second, Mr. Trent,” interposed Helen with 
unusual gentleness, “ I want to give you some of 
these violets. Do you know you are not looking 
well? So here is a donation from the Flower Mis- 
sion. Let me put them in your button-hole.” She 
drew the purple mass of fragrance from her belt, 
and approached him with pretty grace. 

“ Don’t rob yourself,” protested Cyril. “ Well, 
if you will. But give them to me in my hand. 
They are exquisite.” He inhaled the perfume lin- 
geringly. “ Our florists have achieved another mar- 
vel in this great, strong California violet. Don’t 
you think so, Miss Gerrish? I shall put them in a 
certain long, blue ‘ stork ’ vase I have in my mind’s 
eye — I picked it up long ago in Chinatown — and 
we shall be artistic.” 

“Not well, Cyril?” questioned Greathouse as 
he came toward them and held out his hand. “ I 
noticed a slight change in you myself.” 

“Oh, it is nothing — a little malaria perhaps. 
Good-night, Antony ; good-night, all.” 

He went down the steps, holding his hat in his 
hand, and their glance followed him in sudden 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


187 


silence. He was nearing the gate, when Antony- 
rose abruptly and walked to the head of the 
steps. 

“ Cyril ! ’’ he called, sharply. 

They saw him turn in the distance. “ Did you 
call, Antony ? ” he sang back. 

‘‘Yes. Just wait a minute.” And Cyril stood 
until Antony came up to him. 

“Why don’t you put on your hat?” demanded 
the older man, shortly. 

“ I had forgotten,” returned Cyril, placing it now 
on his head. 

“ You are too careless. It is stupid to be care- 
less of one’s health. Have you taken any quinine — 
for your malaria?” 

“ I have no malaria, Antony.” 

“I thought you just said — Then what is the 
matter with you ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ But you have the appearance of illness. Why 
don’t you consult a physician ? ” 

“There is no necessity.” 

The low-spoken, heart-sick tone touched him 
curiously. 

“ Better so, young-un,” he said reassuringly, touch- 
ing his shoulder. “ All is well, — as well as it can be 
with you, I am sure. You seem to have filled out 
your life according to your tastes, and it is better 
so — for both of us.” 

“ All right, Antony. You know best, of course. 
Good-night.’’ 


1 88 THE JOY OF LIFE. 

Good-night, Cy. Keep your hat on in the 
night air.” 

He stood at the gate a moment, watching the 
tall, easy figure swinging up the street under the 
declining sun. Then he shot the bolt again upon 
the past, and went back to his absorbing consulta- 
tion with Adam Greathouse. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


189 


CHAPTER X. 

OIVERTON records detail no events of the fol- 
^ lowing week. Riverton records, like most 
township records, are singularly sparse of interest. 
They give the outlines, — the births, marriages, di- 
vorces, crimes, fames, deaths of their residents, — 
and leave it to the story-writers and story-tellers to 
fill out and in. But Riverton’s recorder showed no 
dereliction of duty in leaving that week’s page un- 
touched. Nothing did happen. Therefore, accord- 
ing to the philosopher, it was a happy week. 

There is a story of a mystic, silent diligence which, 
in the olden days, passed from post to post, dropping 
its passengers and picking them up, coming and go- 
ing, appearing and disappearing, making no dust, 
or trail, or sound, except at the moment of arrival 
and departure, when was heard a warning tally-ho. 
*‘The diligence has come,” the people would say; 
and again, “The diligence has gone,” they said. 
But no one was ever known to have met the dili- 
gence on the road, and of those who traveled therein, 
not one was ever known to speak of or describe the 
road over which he had traveled. Yet, that no mir- 
acle or magic had been performed to bring them 
hither thence, that they must have journeyed over the 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


190 

accustomed road, needed no further evidence than 
the state of the tired horses and the prescribed 
amount of time consumed in going from goal to 
goal. But, ^‘The diligence has come,” said the 
wondering people, when the tally-ho sounded. ‘‘We 
did not see it coming.” And again, “ The diligence 
has gone,” they said. 

To the actors in this quiet little tale, the week 
and its doings were as vague, except for Antony 
Trent, who from his end of the wire helped to 
manipulate the great, historical wheat deal, and in 
his leisure moments, with all the delicacy and tact 
which the venture demanded, worked his great mat- 
rimonial scheme. 

But Greathouse could see no move, and Great- 
house was growing impatient. “ The man under- 
stood me, — there is no question about that,” he 
growled to himself ; and, with his usual profanity, 
lashing himself to a fury, “ damned if I can make 
out what he ’s waiting for, if he cares a cent to clinch 
the offer. He has n’t changed or added to his atten- 
tions since I spoke, so far as I can see. If he has 
any intentions he is making a detour to get at the 
object of them, — and I haven’t time for detours.” 
But he saw no means of finding out. 

The trouble with Greathouse was that he did not 
know that Antony Trent had begun his intentions a 
year before Helen’s home-coming, and his atten- 
tions on the day of her arrival. True, the latter 
were of so fine a nature that only the donor and 
recipient could perceive their existence except in a 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


91 


broad way, such, for instance, as was summarized 
by the rumor that Antony Trent was markedly atten- 
tive to his chiefs daughter. But as Antony Trent 
had never before taken especial note of any young 
woman, the rumor was held by the more charitable, 
in view of his tactful measures, to be merely a gos- 
sip-hawker’s budget. This was precisely the view 
that Trent hoped to establish. It would have been 
as impossible for him to manoeuvre his design accord- 
ing to the open tactics of the American- heiress-seek- 
ing nobility across the water, as it would be for an 
oyster to live outside his shell. He had a fine sense 
of the fitness of things, and believed in keeping that 
covered which should remain covered. If he was 
planning an ignoble game, he played it in a gentle- 
manly fashion. 

To discover her favorite flower and send her a few 
now and then ; to ride with her to the one or two 
historical points of interest, or over the noted pictur- 
esque drives of the country ; to send her tickets for 
the oratorio because he knew she enjoyed music ; ” 
to walk with her through the County Fair, or through 
the flour and paper mills in the character of friendly 
guide and cicerone ; to help her with her wrap ; to 
offer his arm or assistance when such support was 
unlooked for, yet desirable ; to notice her varying 
moods and attire, their becomingness or the con- 
trary, — these and their like were some of the methods, 
noticed and unnoticed, which Antony Trent had em- 
ployed to bait and entrap his unconscious young 
prey. And Helen Greathouse’s girlish vanity had 


192 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


been piqued and delighted by the notice and the 
delicacy of kindness which this grave, clever, much 
sought-after man of affairs showed her father’s 
daughter. Therefore it was that her little daub at 
match-making remained, for the time, a mere daub. 

Barbara Gerrish, during that week’s visit, saw no 
foundation for the rumor which had reached her ears 
a few days before. She saw more of Antony Trent 
in those five or six days than she had seen of him in 
the same number of months during which she had 
lived in the same house with him. This was an 
excitingly busy time for the Adam Greathouse 
Company, and it was necessary for the secretary to 
be often in consultation with the president. To her 
observation, he displayed only an amused, kindly 
interest in the pretty, lonely child of his widowed 
chief. ‘‘ People must talk,” she decided with a 
shrug; and when Antony Trent turned to her, 
Barbara, for an answer to a discussion, for a judg- 
ment upon a book or a character, for an appreciative 
word upon a bit of scenery — for he, and Helen, and 
herself took several early morning rides across country 
together during her stay — she replied happily, and 
in friendly way, a feat she could not have achieved 
had he seemed the mere fortune-hunter which gossip 
dubbed him. 

She saw much of Antony, but nothing at all of 
Cyril Trent. I shall see him Monday,” she said to 
herself, and she was satisfied to live upon that prom- 
ise. It was curious, however, that she did not run 
across him in her walks through town, or in her daily 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


193 


visits to Mrs. Laurie. But when, on Friday, Great- 
house himself remarked that he had not seen Cyril 
Trent for four days, an unusual neglect for Cyril, she 
wondered, with a hot flush, whether he was staying 
away because she was there, and again she wondered 
whether he was ill ; but she found it impossible to 
ask. 

Although she did not hear from Robert, she kept 
up an indomitable hope for him which was strength- 
ened by her confidential talks with Mrs. Laurie. 
The latter was, with Barbara’s help, planning a 
monument to the memory of her lost child, and their 
combined thought and consideration had finally re- 
solved upon a Training-School for Nurses, to be 
built as an annex to the Refuge Club, the foundation 
and walls of which were already standing. Barbara 
took a deep interest in the plans. 

“ I am not sure,’^ she told the Greathouses Satur- 
day night, as she and Helen sat near the bedside of 
the old man, who had succumbed to an attack of 
bronchitis, “ I am not sure that I shall not go in for 
the training myself. With my knowledge of hygiene 
and anatomy, I should have a good beginning, and I 
often feel I should be very much at home in a sick- 
room.’’ 

“ You are,” Greathouse assured her. I know no 
one who can shake pillows up to that peculiar, much- 
to-be desired downiness that you can. Now there ’s 
Nell — she gives it a thump and a dump and says, 
^ How is that, Dad ? ’ and when she gives that persua- 
sive ain’t-I-a-great-help look, what can I say but yes? ” 

13 


194 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Helen pouted, and Barbara laughed. Wait till 
she has had more experience,” she advised. After 
all the years of shaking I had with grandmamma’s 
cushions and pillows it would be ridiculous if I were 
not adept now. But I really think I should make 
a capital nurse, especially with the little ones.” 

“ If you ever go and do anything so uncalled-for 
and pose-y as that, I ’ll disown you,” Helen an- 
nounced from her seat on the rug by the window. 

Pose-y ? ” repeated Barbara, opening her eyes 
wide. ^‘What is that.?” 

“ Oh, going in for a uniform, and unworldliness, 
and sweet saintliness, and all that ! Leave it to the 
others ! ” 

“ Which others ? ” 

‘^The disappointed and the unfortunate and — 
that sort.” 

“You would have a cheery lot of nurses at that 
rate. I am ashamed of you, Helen.” 

“ All right — as long as you don’t make me 
ashamed of you. Here comes a messenger-boy.” 

Greathouse’s rooms were on the ground floor, and as 
she spoke, Helen sprang to her feet, and slightly raising 
the window, called to the boy as he came up the steps. 

“ For whom is it? ” she asked, holding out her hand. 

“ Miss Barbara Gerrish,” replied the boy, and he 
gave her the envelope. 

While the boy waited in event of an answer, 
Barbara was quickly reading: 

Will be home Sunday on midnight train. Be at 
house to receive me. Robert. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


195 

“Anything wrong, Barb?” murmured Helen, as 
the girl looked up at her with a dazed, white 
face. 

“ Oh, no,” she laughed in some excitement, “ but 
I believe I was frightened for a moment. Robert is 
coming home to-morrow night, so I shall have to leave 
you. There is no answer, my boy,” she added, 
drawing nearer to the waiting Mercury, and he went 
nonchalantly off. 

“ We shall miss you immeasurably,” grumbled 
Greathouse, looking with frank admiration at her 
vivid face as she leaned upon the foot of the 
bed. 

“ Will you ? It has been a great treat for me.’’ 
She gazed musingly about the bright, comfortable 
room filled with the luxuries of wealth and the 
spirit of family ease and restfulness. 

“It has been a treat to us,” Greathouse asserted 
heartily. “ Break away from that brother of yours 
once in a while and treat us again.” 

Barbara smiled as if still dreaming. “ Thank you,” 
she returned absently. Then she shook off her 
abstraction, and came around and held out her hand 
to him. “ I have several little things to do to-night 
before going to bed, so I will leave you. If I don’t 
see you before I leave in the morning, good-morning 
and good-bye. ’Night, girlie,” she called to the girl 
still crouched on the floor near the window. 

“ Good-night, Barbara, ” answered Helen, without 
moving, and Barbara went off. 

“A charming woman, your friend,” observed 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


196 

Greathouse, a few minutes after the door had closed 
behind her. In his hope and assurance that Helen 
now represented more irresistible attractions to his 
beloved lieutenant than any other woman on the 
horizon .possibly could, he had been able to view 
her quondam imagined rival with unprejudiced eyes. 
“ She gives one a sense of trust, of reliability.” 

“ Are you thinking of giving me a step-mamma ? ” 
queried the girl on the floor, with averted face. 

Halloa ! There ’s an idea. Or is my little girl 
cross ? ” 

His little girl did not answer. She sat with her 
arms clasped about her limbs ; her curly head had 
drooped till it rested upon her knees. All day she 
had felt something rankling. The feeling had grown 
apace during the week, and she had striven valiantly 
to annihilate it. She knew it was petty, contempti- 
ble, and she was ashamed to acknowledge, even to 
herself, that its name was jealousy, but a little inci- 
dent of the morning had shown it in its true colors. 
Of course, she knew that a glowing light cannot be 
hid beneath a bushel, and if Antony Trent acknowl- 
edged in his manner that Barbara’s was an arrestive 
individuality, he was simply indorsing a self-evident 
truth ; but to the spoilt child of fortune to whom 
he had been paying a flattering attention, the fact 
was borne in upon her that this latter attention was 
not so intent as that he gave the older girl, and the 
knowledge was not palatable. It was the first tinge 
of gray upon her rose cloud, and Helen did not 
enjoy her first taste of the vapors. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


197 


That morning’s little passage of light had dis- 
gruntled her sadly. They — she, and Barbara, and 
Trent — had taken an early gallop over the hills, 
and were approaching an opening in the woods, 
when Helen exclaimed, “ Oh, there is Cyril Trent’s 
pretty cabin ! Shall we pay him a morning call ? ” 
There was a moment’s drawing up, but in a flash, 
Barbara, touching her horse lightly with her whip, 
was seen galloping at a pretty speed down the hill- 
side. In a half-second Trent had followed her, but 
before he had gone a dozen yards he drew rein and 
turned about. 

Coming, Miss Greathouse?” he called. 

Why don’t you overtake Barbara } ” 

‘‘ Impossible. Besides, my horse and I prefer the 
foot-pace with you.” He had been in delightful 
humor after that, but Helen resented his impulsive 
forgetfulness of her. 

How long she sat on the floor, pouting gloomily 
over the slight, she did not know. It was only 
when, in the course of her dissatisfied brooding, 
she remembered her father’s warm words of praise, 
which, to her clouded vision, had seemed another 
disparagement of herself, that she realized where 
she was, and raised her head. Feeling somewhat 
stiff, she scrambled to her feet and looked toward 
him. He was fast asleep, and something in his aspect 
told her that he had been so for some time. She 
moved softly to the chandelier, turned off the gas, 
and after lighting the lamp and adjusting the shade, 
stepped quietly away. 


198 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


She proceeded upstairs to her room and began 
to undress. She had shaken her hair loose from its 
pins and was fastening her dainty night-dress, when, 
seized by a sudden impulse, she picked up the 
small Sevres lamp from her dressing-table, and her 
little bare feet sped swiftly over the carpet to the 
door dividing her room from that of her guest. 

She opened the door and passed through. The 
lamp she held made the only spot of light in the quiet 
room as she moved toward the bed and looked down. 

Barbara lay peacefully sleeping. Her dark hair, 
loosely braided for the night, fell soft about her 
temples. Her dusky face was slightly flushed ; her 
fine, mobile lips kissed each other lightly ; her dark, 
slightly curled lashes cast a faint shadow on her 
cheeks ; she breathed almost imperceptibly, her 
bosom rising faintly and regularly. Inhere was a 
largeness and grace in her posture and figure, in the 
rounded arm and slender hand flung over her head, 
which Helen recognized, and which, in her uncon- 
scious comparison, made her feel slight and insig- 
nificant. Even in sleep she appeared to Helen to 
represent character and magnetism, and her hungry 
eyes rested long upon her. But as she stood, so 
close that the lamp cast a halo on the pillow, Bar- 
bara slowly opened her eyes and gazed up at her. 

She smiled sleepily. “ Well, Psyche,” she said in 
a drowsy tone, what is it ? ” 

“ I wanted to look at you,” returned the girl, 
dauntlessly, with burning cheeks. “ I wanted to 
discover wherein your fascination really lies.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


199 


And did you ? ’’ queried the other, in amuse- 
ment, while her ghostly visitor put down her lamp 
and settled herself Turkish fashion at the foot of 
the bed. 

‘‘ Yes and no. It is past finding out, I suppose,” 
she responded flippantly ; “ but it is there just the 
same.’’ 

“ What do you mean by my fascination, Nellie ?” 

Oh, your power to make others think that you 
are the only one in a roomful of people.” 

‘‘ Do I ever make you feel that way ? ” 

“ No, but I am a girl. Do you know, Barbara, I 
sometimes think we merely rich girls, who think 
ourselves the salt and pivot of the world, are only its 
ornaments, or excrescences, and don’t amount to 
much, after all?” 

The proud flesh of the world,” murmured Bar- 
bara, below her breath. 

“What?” 

“Nothing, dear; a passing thought,” 

“ The other day, last week, when Cyril Trent was 
speaking to papa, he said, ‘ Merely to be born rich 
is not to be born at all, — it is to be still-born.’ I 
believe he was quoting, but it sounded awfully so- 
cialistic. Still, 1 suppose half the time it is true. 
It must develop character to be forced out into the 
world, to come in conflict with humanity, to know that 
your life depends entirely upon your own strength 
and abilities. It must give a girl — a woman — a 
sense of satisfaction.” 

“ Especially,” drawled Barbara, a cynical light in 


200 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


her eyes, ‘‘when she has to be up and out in all 
weathers whether she will or no, or when she has a 
pain in her head or any other ache or ill, or when 
a glorious opera-troupe appears and she can’t take 
it in, or when all the other lovely things of life go 
by and she isn’t in them. Oh, I tell you, Helen, 
poverty, or even gentility, is very piquant for an ex- 
periment, but for a permanent state, give me down- 
right, all-powerful riches.” 

“ I was not speaking of riches as a means, but as 
an effect on character.” 

“ Pshaw ! Character ! Give me what I want and 
I ’ll be ‘ as good as gold.’ Who has a better char- 
acter than my Lord Multi-millionnaire?” 

“ You don’t understand me, or — won’t you ? ” 

“ Child, I am so sleepy that I can’t. And you — 
you will catch your death of cold mooning at me 
there in that thin night-dress. Here, midget, come 
into my arms and I ’ll warm you.” 

The girl snuggled down against her, and put her 
arms about her neck. “ I know what part of it is. 
Barb,” she whispered finally. “ It is the protective, 
the maternal spirit you seem to breathe.” 

“ Exactly. I ’m a kind, motherly old soul ; is 
that it ? Hush, childie, let us go to sleep.” 

Five minutes later they were both calmly sleep- 
ing, and while they slept, the diligence was slowly 
winding to the goal. But they did not hear it com- 
ing, — it gave no warning tally-ho. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


201 


CHAPTER XI. 

TT was half-past ten the next morning when Bar- 
bara turned out of the Greathouse gate and took 
her way down the street in the midsummer’s languor- 
ous heat. The Sabbath quiet was abroad, and the 
few men she met in this business portion of the town 
wore that leisurely, lost aspect which sits upon so 
many Americans on the street of a Sunday. 

She was approaching the Common, when she per- 
ceived Judge and Mrs. Laurie, and their son Powell 
with his ungainly ’cello, sauntering slowly toward 
her. 

“Haven’t you lost yourselves?” she questioned 
as they came up, and she gave her hand to the Judge, 
her eyes to Mrs. Laurie. 

“ No, we are going to the Sunday Morning Club,” 
replied Mrs. Laurie for her rather silent husband, 
who looked away from them. 

“ I suppose that accounts for Mr. Laurie’s bulky 
burden,” she said, eyeing the young man’s green 
cloth-covered instrument. 

“ Yes. I generally accompany David Simms when 
he plays, and Cyril Trent is going to speak to-day. 
That is why father and mother are going. Do come 
with us. Miss Gerrish. Cyril generally has something 
to say that is worth listening to.” 


202 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


^‘1 wish you would come, Barbara,” supplemented 
hi^ mother’s sad, soft voice. 

Ah — I had not thought of it — ” hesitated the 
girl, the rich color dyeing her cheek. ‘‘ Besides, I 
do not belong — I have no ticket — no card of 
admission.” 

My invitation is enough,” said young Laurie. 
“You don’t need a card — any one comes who cares 
to.” 

“ Better come, Miss Gerrish,” vouchsafed the 
judge, and Barbara turned and walked back with 
them. She felt a little flutter of excitement as they 
went up the stone steps of the Painters’ club-house, in 
whose large exhibition room the Sunday Morning Club 
held its meetings. 

As they passed up the few steps, Antony Trent, 
walking past, caught sight of them. The fact that 
Cyril was to speak was known to him through Gen- 
eral Grosvenor, whom he had met that morning in the 
barber-shop. The sight of Barbara Gerrish going up 
the club-house steps brought a cynical smile to his 
lips. He walked on briskly. By the time he 
reached the corner the smile had frozen into a frown. 
Because a woman and a fool had got religion must 
he be troubled by their vagary? Bosh ! 

Another minute, however, and he had turned and 
was walking toward the meeting-place. He would 
hear for once what the lad had to say, he told him- 
self; and with an indulgent smile, he walked through 
the vestibule, baring his smooth, dark head as he 
entered the hail. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


203 


As the door swung to behind him, he was surprised 
to find the cosy place already filled. Every seat was 
occupied, and several late-comers stood with him at 
the back of the hall. There was a buzz of conversa- 
tion ; and as Antony bowed to an acquaintance, his 
gaze traveled down the aisles and across the sea of 
faces until it rested on the distinctive features of Bar- 
bara Gerrish where she sat with the Lauries. Their 
seats had evidently been reserved, for they occupied 
chairs near the platform. She wore a small, dark hat 
with a red rose in it which rested on her hair ; her 
gown was black, of the tailor-made order, and suited 
her figure and pose perfectly. Trent found her ap- 
pearance eminently satisfactory. 

Having placed her, his eyes passed from group to 
group, recognizing here “ the quality ” of Riverton, 
there in turn, a farmer, a workman, an ambitious 
youth, a well-groomed club-man, an artist, and so on, 
up and down the scale of fortune. 

Presently the tuning of strings was heard, and, 
directing his gaze toward the platform, he saw that 
David Simms and Powell Laurie had taken their seats 
to one side and somewhat toward the back of the 
stage. Otherwise, except for a small reading-table 
near the front and center, the platform was vacant. 

After a few minutes of preparatory tuning, the 
dreamy, opening strains of Grieg’s “ Dawn ” were 
heard, and the buzz of conversation ceased. When 
Antony looked upon the stage again, he saw that his 
brother Cyril had taken his place beside the reader’s 
desk. As he looked at him, thus removed, distinct 


204 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


from his fellows, a slow, curious sense of unfamiliarity 
crept into the older man’s consciousness, and sent a 
flush into his thin dark face. 

The ‘‘ young-un ’’ stood in easy unconsciousness, 
his hand resting on the lectern. He was dressed in 
scrupulously neat gray tweed ; his spotless linen and 
polished shoes, the loosely-knotted black tie, his 
somewhat long golden hair brushed carelessly back, 
were, if unconventional for the place and hour, the 
attire of a gentleman. His perfect physique told 
powerfully as he stood gazing straight before him ; 
added to which, the pallor of the still countenance, 
the ideality of the dreaming brow and eyes, the 
faint tenderness of the beardless, boyish lips and 
chin, made him an unusual embodiment of manly 
beauty and interest. 

The lad is handsome,” said Antony to himself, 
with a feeling half of wonder, half of disturbance in 
the kinship ; and then, as the music, of which Trent 
had heard nothing, died away, Cyril began to speak. 

“We come here,” began the pleasant, musical 
voice, “ in the character of questioners. If the es- 
sence of life, the intelligence of the soul, were con- 
vertible into form, we should find it taking the shape 
of a huge interrogation mark — What is life What 
is death? What is Truth? What is God? Is there 
immortality? These and their kindred are the 
eternal problems which man, according to his time, 
necessity, and desires, has striven to answer satis- 
factorily unto man.” 

Antony smiled. Would this young idealist, this 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


205 


visionary who, in his lowliest flight, was scarcely cog- 
nizant of the stern, ugly reality of life, presume to add 
his subscription to the mass of dreams and specula- 
tions with which the brain of the world was already 
clogged to suffocation ? He listened with skeptical 
curiosity. 

The man spoke quietly. He prefaced his remarks 
with the hypothesis that our most obstinate con- 
victions were the outgrowth of tradition, that a 
clear, naked vision was a human impossibility. All 
ideas upon the Unknowable, First Cause, God, were 
built upon speculation, which, in turn, had been built 
upon speculation, and so on, backward and forward, 
through infinity. In every age, he maintained, some 
gigantic Dream- Soul had voiced the trend of 
thought and aspiration of his time into a systematized 
creed, and formed a religion. But the mutability of 
circumstance, the advance of the suns, and the con- 
sequent changes in human thought, had proven that 
every established creed was but a step to the next, 
and so on to the highest, which reaches into the 
beyond. From which he drew the conclusion that 
history never has produced and never will produce 
a Final Religion. 

Trent found himself attending closely. He was un- 
prepared for this downright logic, this reasoning from 
fact and not from fancy. The exposition of these 
ideas found him respectful ; they were coincident 
with his own. He was surprised into the peculiar 
acknowledgment that he no longer knew his brother ; 
that within the past twelve years they had drifted out 


206 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


of each other’s knowledge ; that the incident of one 
night had laid its chilling hand between them, and 
made them, in all save a common parentage and 
childhood, distant and unacquainted as strangers. 
That the boy had matured and given his dreams a 
more substantial foundation, should not have sur- 
prised him. In the matter of experience, Antony 
Trent stood a child before his younger brother. 

His attention had wandered. He strove to con- 
centrate it anew ; but the sound of the man’s grave 
voice was mingled with the memory of the boy's 
treble, and, strive as he would, he could not overcome 
this sudden submission to the spell of the past. It 
was a novel weakness, and Trent fought against it. 

He knew that the young-un was speaking in a 
broad, tolerant strain ; he heard the words, “ Greater 
than you hav'e thought and will think otherwise. 
Everything is at some time true to some one — 
Nothing is true forever to every one — ” And then 
he lost him again, — lost him to float in a sea of 
egoistic questionings which found no answer, meant 
nothing to him until he became conscious that his 
gaze was resting on the red rose in Barbara Gerrish’s 
hat, and noticed that the girl sat in an intensely still 
attitude of attention. His glance turned slowly from 
her to the man who thus held her, and now he saw 
that the former quiet pose of philosophy he had borne 
had been strained, artificial, necessitous; that he had 
burst the bounds of convention, and was speaking his 
chosen thoughts in their more intimate, impetuous 
language. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


207 


He scorned the epigram that Truth is hidden in 
the bottom of a well or lodged in the crevice of a 
high mountain peak. He averred that it lay about 
us, above us, within us. “ Truth ? ” he said. “ There 
is but one eternal Truth ; Nature is, and the Ideal 
beckons.” 

He was fairly launched now. His face put on a 
radiance which seemed to spiritualize it. This Truth, 
this Nature, was his God, — his blind, deaf God, 
working without end or design, working of necessity, 
sometimes wrecking, sometimes slaying, sometimes 
glorifying, but — blind. Thence the excuse, the 
resignation, and the awe. 

“ This is pantheism pure and simple,” smiled 
Antony, more at ease in this recognition of his boy- 
brother who spoke now through the man. 

“And this I would have you know,” spoke the 
dreamer. “ Man is but the apogee of Nature, 
Nature’s darling, her highest work, but — no more. 
Little souls, what ask you ? Do you know ? Men 
are not born equals, nor do they develop equals, — 
interdependence and division is the law of man to 
man. Of your superfluity you shall give, — of your 
strength, your divinity, your joy, your riches, — and 
each in his little way, each in his little way, shall draw 
a mortal up. So climbs the world. Go, measure 
your success by this : inasmuch as you have loved 
and have been loved, you have lived — this alone 
is life, its compensation, and its immortality. 

“ I saw a fleece-white cloud go sailing like a lily 
wraith over the sky, — sailing away into the infinite 


208 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


blue. I watched the glory of the sunset, transfigur- 
ing the world, — and fading into gray. I saw a 
woman turn with a wondrous smile of love upon her 
fallen sister, — and pass away. I saw — what have I 
not seen of earth’s immortalities ! ” 

And the dream-man stood before them. And 
afterwards, while his lips yet trembled with unspoken 
words, David Simms picked up his bow and drew it 
lovingly across the strings, and a rush of lilting, 
mounting melody like a hallelujah of birds swept 
into the listening silence, and Cyril Trent stood 
gazing before him until Powell Laurie arose and put 
his hand upon his shoulder, when he smiled. And 
Barbara Gerrish rose with the others, and moved out 
of the building into the sunlit, brooding streets, 
through the Common and over the bridge, and so, 
up the cross-street, home. 

When day was waning, the three men met at the 
gate, Powell Laurie, Cyril and Antony Trent. 

‘‘ I have a message for Miss Gerrish,” said Laurie, 
as they walked up the path, upon whose stone the 
late afternoon sun had flung the shadows of the rose- 
trees. I wonder if she is at home.” 

“ She has been stopping with the Greathouses all 
the week, you know,” replied Antony, slackening his 
pace in answer. 

‘‘ But she returned this morning. She expects 
Gerrish to-night.” 

“ Ah. I had not heard.” 

They ascended the steps, glancing leisurely around 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 209 

the silent premises for a sight of the lady of their 
search. 

‘‘The place seems deserted,” said Antony. “Wait 
a minute — or come in — while I inquire inside.” 
He drew out his key and was about to insert it, 
when his hand gave a start. 

“ There she is,” he said, and they stood and 
watched her moving toward them from the grape- 
arbor. She had changed her dark gown for a soft, 
maize-colored dimity. Upon her shoulder rested a 
massive bunch of brown-gold muscatelle grapes ; in 
her arms she carried heavy clusters of the purple 
fruit. She came toward them, the westering sun 
beating down on her uncovered head, transforming 
her into a goddess of the harvest, a bacchante. 

The sun had flung a glowing rose upon her cheek 
and so dazzled her eyes that she did not see them 
till she was quite close. 

“ Oh, Mr. Laurie,” she exclaimed, looking up and 
hastening toward them. “ And Mr. Trent — and — 
you ! ” She stood still, three steps from the top, 
quite startled from her wonted calm. Antony Trent’s 
senses gave a leap as he saw* the color pulse through 
her dark cheek, when she looked to and from his 
brother. 

“ I am quite too laden to shake hands with you 
all,” she went on, coming up the remaining steps. 
“ I have been gathering grapes for Robert’s supper- 
table to-night. He is coming home, you know. 
Are n’t they gorgeous ? I would offer you some, but 
I know you won’t care for them ; and, besides, I want 


210 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


them just so for Robert. Will you open the door 
for me, Mr. Trent, and I shall be out again as soon 
as I can drop these. It is too beautiful to go in.” 

Trent stood aside, meeting her glowing eyes with 
a faint smile. He did not know that he was quite 
pale, nor did Barbara notice it. 

“ Are n’t you all going to sit down ? she urged, as 
she came out after a moment’s absence. I have so 
much to talk about, — with you in particular, Mr. 
Trent.” Unconsciously her voice went softer as she 
looked toward Cyril Trent, leaning against the trellis. 

We have come only for a minute,” he answered 
courteously but shortly. “ Powell has a message for 
you.” 

It was all I could do to make him come in at 
all,” declared Laurie. We are on our way to ‘ The 
Painters,’ where Cyril is wanted. Mother returns you 
your Browning. She especially wishes me to say 
that she enjoyed intensely the ‘ Muleykah ’ — what- 
ever that may mean.” 

“ I thought she would,” said Barbara, taking the 
volume from his hand and placing it on the window- 
sill. There is such a brave heart-break in it. I 
would not have you read it for the world, Mr. Laurie. 
Some day I shall give it to Mr. Trent.” 

No favors,” cried the young fellow good-naturedly, 
as they moved toward the step. I won’t stand it. 
If there is anything a fellow hates it is being left out 
in the cold in a question of understanding — from 
experience. A year or two more will remedy all 
that. Miss Gerrish.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


2II 


Don’t be in a hurry to learn,” she advised, in 
what Helen would have called her “ maternal tone.” 
They were walking down the steps now, and she 
moved unquestioningly with them. “ It always 
angers me to hear young people longing for ^ experi- 
ence ’ or pretending to it. It’s a robbing scheme at 
best, as the rose said when the bee kissed her.” 

“ It only made her blush the rosier.” 

“ But the next time she did not blush at all.” 

You are a pessimistic, degenerate young woman.” 

I only meant to warn you, young man. I am 
sorry you are going. It is just the hour and evening 
for a chat.” 

I am afraid I should grow sentimental,” smiled 
Laurie, looking at her with honest admiration. 

“ I should endeavor to keep you in countenance,” 
she returned in kind ; and then as Cyril, still silent, 
unlatched the gate, “ I will see you to-morrow, Mr. 
Trent,” she added, more quietly. 

“To-morrow?” he repeated, with raised hat, 
stepping onto the sidewalk and regarding her 
queslioningly. 

“ Why,” she laughed, “ you have not forgotten 
your invitation for tea, have you?” 

“ Only for the moment,” he reassured her, a slow 
flush rising to his cheek, which in the full light ap- 
peared somewhat sallow. “ The water is already 
boiling — in anticipation. Don’t disappoint it.” 

“ I won’t,” she answered with a nod; and, as they 
saluted and walked away, she stood for a space 
gazing after them. 


212 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Then she turned, and in deep, unconscious musing 
trailed over the grass of the lawn, picking a rose 
here, a sprig of jasmine there, a spicy carnation 
beyond. Just in the center plot stood an immense 
old rose-tree laden with exquisite Sunset roses. 
High up among its topmost spoils nodded a radiant 
beauty, and as she reached toward it a man’s voice 
said suddenly in the evening quiet, — 

“ Must it be the highest ? 

“ ‘ One needs must love the highest, when one 
sees,’ ” she responded without turning, reaching in- 
effectually. *‘But I can’t break it off.” 

His hand reached over hers, caught the rose-stem 
and her fingers in a vice, and drew them down. 

She made to draw her hand away, but he held it 
so tight that a cry of pain almost escaped her. She 
looked up, startled, into Antony Trent’s ashen face. 

For a moment his eyes burned into hers. Then, 

Barbara,” he said, in a strange, suffocated voice, 

U j ?? 

Oh, no ! ” she cried, recoiling as far as her im- 
prisoned hand would allow. Oh, no, Mr. Trent.” 

Be still ! ” he commanded, in savage roughness. 

Be still. I will not have you answer me. I love 
you ! I will have you ! You shall be, must be, 
mine. Don’t answer — not now. To-morrow. Ask 
Robert. My God, Barbara, how I love you ! ” He 
flung her hand almost brutally from him, turned un- 
certainly, and passed out of the gate. 

The Sunday bells rang out peacefully, stilling the 
air with lingering, sweet solemnity. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


213 


Barbara stood for a space, stunned and bewildered. 
Then she wandered back over the grass, and up the 
walk, and sat down on the porch settee. The flow- 
ers fell at her feet unheeded. She folded her hands 
and sat thinking quietly, quietly. A bird flew to the 
great magnolia-tree and called to his mate. The 
answer came. It was the trysting hour, — the soft- 
flushed hour between day and dusk, when the heart 
of the world turns love ward and homeward. Down 
to the high branches of the old tree fluttered the 
birds, as to a watch-tower, calling, shrilling, piping, 
whistling, the old question and answer, — “ Love ? ” 
“ Here.” Love ? ” Here,” — the simple, eternal 
duo of earthly need. 


214 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


CHAPTER XIT. 

I N building his great defensive wall, Antony Trent 
^ had made no provision against the arch-enemy, 
passion. It had not entered into his calculations. 
It was a devastating force inimical to success, and 
held by him in such contempt that to have given 
it a moment’s consideration as a possible factor 
in his life would have been a banal tour de force 
of his imagination. He was so engirt and armored 
in his blinding ambition that the missiles of tenderer 
temptations had passed him harmlessly by. 

The sudden fell swoop of the archer had taken 
him by the throat and robbed him of his head. He 
went from Barbara Gerrish’s presence as one rushes 
from the unforeseen face of his Nemesis. 

His whole being throbbed with fever. He tramped 
away, out of the suburbs, back into the hills and 
woods of his boyhood. Alone in all the sane crises 
of his life, he would be alone in this his first mad- 
ness. For he was mad. All the pent up, stifled 
passions of his youth and early manhood rushed 
like vengeful fiends into the breach, and fanned the 
dizzying flame. Through the dim, silent w^oods 
he went, trampling the dry leaves and snapping 
twigs under foot like a wild animal, thrusting boughs 


THE JGY OF LIFE. 


215 


and branches aside with violent intolerance, his 
bloodshot eyes seeing nothing but the one woman’s 
face and form which had thus undone him. He 
loved her. 

The knowledge had seized him in an overpowering 
flash of light when he had seen this strong, noble- 
browed woman look toward his brother Cyril with 
eyes of love — Bah! Folly I Only his insane 
jealousy could have conceived such a fantastic idea. 
Cyril! Ha, ha! He threw his head back and 
laughed aloud. Cyril, the dream-man, the cloud- 
gazer, the — He paused, and looked fiercely around. 
Who had said the word? Not he — surely not he. 
Yet some one had said it — he could have sworn it. 
His fist doubled as he stood still, scarcely breathing. 
But in the hushed evening only the lisping, running 
rivulet spoke, the lisping, happy river, murmuring like 
a refrain, — 

“ Will to know make you happy, Tony?” 

No, it will make me great.” 

And then will you be happy, Tony ? ” 

Happy ? happy ? happy ? — God ! what did the 
word mean? Was he happy now? He would escape 
the sound, escape the hold of the past with its 
clinging arms and eyes, — and he plunged deeper 
into the thicket ; but the lisping, childish voice 
followed him, hung in the air in unconscious mock- 
ing, leaned closer, would not be still. 

What are you going to be when you are a man, 
Tony?” 

‘‘ Rich.’’ 


2i6 the joy of life. 

“ And what are you going to do to get rich ? 

“ Work.” 

But lots of fellows work and don’t get rich.” 

I will.” 

Why.?” 

“Because I will.” 

“And will you be happy when you are rich, 
Tony?” 

“ Yes.” 

He raised both hands to his head, pushing back 
his hat as though its weight oppressed him. Great 
heavens, what had he done ! 

He, Antony Trent, had sold his manhood’s crown 
for a song. His laggard senses came straggling back 
with shame-bowed heads. In that moment he 
counted the cost of his wild leap. It was natural 
for Antony Trent to count the cost of any enterprise, 
but up to the present instance his counting had 
always been done before, not after, the venture. 
Helen Greathouse and Barbara Gerrish in the 
balance : down, down went the former, and all 
she represented, like a nugget against a feather. He 
stood icy, in gray despair. Slowly he stepped back- 
ward, step by step, down the steep his imagination 
had reared with such indomitable pride and assur- 
ance, until he stood upon the narrow level of fact. 
And yet — suppose she, Barbara, could not care for 
him ! 

He clutched at the straw, and shuddered away 
from it. Barbara against Helen ! The madness 
of his love again overwhelmed him, and his blood 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


217 


bounded at thought of her. Suppose she did 
— could love him. A deep flush rose tenderly, 
shyly to his gray face, and his whole frame trembled 
at the unaccustomed dream. He had never been 
loved so. He had never known love or tenderness 
of that sort. If she — 

He turned and walked slowly back. Night had 
fallen upon the trees, and the moon hung pale and 
tranquil in the sky. It was a white, still night, in 
which every form was repeated in shadow. He 
walked on and on, immersed in his dreams, until he 
reached an old, disused wharf between village and 
town. He leaned upon the rail and looked down 
upon the gently-flowing, moon-kissed river. It 
lapped about the rotting piles with sad, incessant 
beat, and lulled Antony strangely. All was quiet 
about him, as though the world slept. It seemed to 
him that he too had tasted of some poppy-enchant- 
ment, and all his energies had succumbed to a de- 
licious lassitude. 

A foot-fall on the bridge roused him, but the 
pedestrian passed on, and again his spirit drifted. 
The foot-fall returned, drew near, stood still. 

“The river is dark, friend,” said a deep, grave 
voice. 

At its sound he straightened his figure and turned 
slowly round. The moon shone ghostly on his face. 

“ You, Antony ? ” 

“ As you see, QyP 

“ I thought it was some one in extremity.” 

“It is only I.” He turned again and leaned upon 


2i8 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


the rail. Cyril came and stood beside him. The 
brothers looked down into the whispering stream. 
It lapped against the rotting piles, the only sound 
in the wide expanse of night. Suddenly Cyril put 
his hand upon his brother’s shoulder. 

“ We are two lonely men, Antony,” he said. He 
spoke as though musing over a grave discovery. 

For many seconds he received no response. His 
words had chimed in harmoniously with the other’s 
thoughts. His voice and presence held a new quality, 
— a tender, benignant quality which Antony had 
never before perceived. Yet now, though his wistful 
soul, in its unfamiliar suppliance, longed for converse, 
sympathy, warmth, it had grown rusty like a key in 
lock and could not at once respond. 

Finally he spoke as with a wrench. “Cyril,” he 
said in hoarse abruptness, “ I love a woman.” 

“Ah.” The hand upon his shoulder pressed a 
little more heavily. 

“A fruit of late growth is generally abnormal.” 

“Yes.” 

“ It has ruined me.” 

“ I don’t understand.” 

“ It has come between me and the consummation 
of my ambition,” he rushed on in white, restrained 
passion. “Without it, I would have achieved 
wealth, great wealth ; I would have won adulation, 
power, ease, travel, — everything that makes life 
worth living before the long sleep. I have flung 
it all away — like any weak idiot.” His hands 
clutched at the rail, the words came now in a tor- 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


219 


rent. Money makes money. Not to have it now 
— when but for this — To have to go on in the 
same old lines, the same old slow grind — It is 
maddening, maddening ! ” 

“ I do not understand you, Antony.’’ 

“No. And yet, without her — if she were to 
say the * no ’ that would rob me of hope of her — 
Cyril, this is weakness, but it is stronger than death 
upon me, and — I must pay the price.” 

“ Love is no weakness.” 

“Yes.” 

“ It is the one impregnable bulwark.” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ It is compensation for everything.” 

“ For a day, for a year.” 

“ For life.” 

The lapping water embraced the rotting piles 
with ceaseless fervor. Silence again fell between 
them until Cyril spoke. 

“ Is that all, Tony?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That you love a woman ? ” 

“ And have told her so.” 

“ And her answer?” 

“ She has given none.” 

“ You are not — afraid, Antony ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I think you could make any woman love you.” 

“ Not the woman I love.” 

“ Ah.” 

“ She is — not like that.” The words came cum- 


220 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


bersomely. She admires — loves intellect — hero- 
ism — unselfishness. She has ideals. I have been 
traveling under a cloud.” 

Perhaps, — like the sun on a winter’s day ; but 
you have been traveling.” 

I am a machine, — a money-making machine.’’ 

^‘You are an honorable man.” 

The words rang out with blunt force, as a hammer 
hits the nail on the head ; and for a moment Antony 
thrilled under them. 

“ That is nothing,” he said dully. 

‘‘ It is everything.” 

‘^Not for love. Great God, Cy, what a fool I am 
to think of it ! ” He brought his clenched fist down 
on the shivering rail. There was another pause, and 
then with peculiar inconsistency Antony clutched 
Cyril’s shoulder. “And yet, young-un,” he said 
harshly, “if there were anything worthy her appro- 
bation in my life — ” 

“ There is, Tony.” 

“ No.” 

“God knows there is, Tony.” 

“ God knows — perhaps.” 

“ And I.” 

“ Not I.” 

Through the moonlight Cyril’s face shone ghastly. 
“ I will tell her,” he said. 

“ Bah ! Do you want to spoil everything for 
me?” 

“ It would spoil nothing for you with her.” 

“Her? Who?” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


221 


Barbara. Who else ? ” 

Antony started. His arm slipped about his 
brother’s neck. “ Poor Cy/’ he murmured in new 
mood. 

Silence,’’ commanded the younger, thrusting him 
from him with gruff passion, his eyes flashing in the 
white face. “I am going to tell her — now,” he 
went on harshly. “ You can’t stop me. I will have 
it over and done with.” 

“ Fool ! ” 

“You have called me that before; but, fool or 
no fool, I know what is best for you now. Take 
your hand from my shoulder, Antony.” 

But Antony’s hand moved up till he clutched his 
brother’s throat. “If I thought you would dare 
breathe a word of that — hell,” he muttered hoarsely, 
“ I would choke you silent where you stand.” 

“ Hands off,” gasped Cyril, loosening the fingers. 
“ I could throw you with a movement, Antony,” he 
admonished thickly, “ but — we won’t quarrel. 
Listen. I must tell this — hell — to Barbara Ger- 
rish — for your benefit. If you know her at all, 
you know it will reflect nothing but honor upon 
you.” 

“ You are my brother.” 

“You can’t help that. Besides, it is necessary 
that she should know.” 

“Why?” 

Their stern eyes met. 

A vague understanding of some inexplicable 
mystery came to Antony. He moved irresponsibly 


222 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


aside, swayed by a power stronger than himself. 
Cyril stood motionless for a moment, then walked 
hurriedly away. 

Once or twice he stumbled in his blind, instinctive 
course, but he paid no heed. Just before the house, 
he drew himself together, took off his hat, and leaned 
a moment against the stately poplar guarding the 
entrance. Then he opened the gate. 

Through the shadows he saw a white figure mov- 
ing on the porch. 

“Is that you, Barbara?” he asked as he drew 
near. 

The white figure paused. “Yes, Cyril, it is I,” 
she answered, quite still in her surprise at his coming. 

He came up the steps, hat in hand. The fact of 
his being there seemed to establish some right, to 
prove the closeness of an unspoken claim. 

“ I am waiting for Robert,” she said in her usual 
pleasant voice as they moved toward the settee. 
“ Will you sit down with me a while? I expect him 
on the midnight train.” 

“It cannot be more than nine,” he observed 
hoarsely. 

“ I know, but it is so beautiful out here.” 

They sat facing each other, a hand’s-breath apart, 
the melody of the night about them. Presently the 
man spoke. 

“ I have just come from Antony,” he said. 

“Yes?” 

Their voices were quiet, low. 

“ He has told me of his love for you.” 


Her eyes looked steadily into his. She made no 
answer. 

‘‘ I want to speak to you about my brother,” he went 
on in strained quiet. “ There is no one else to speak 
for him. I want you to know who and what he is.” 

know what your brother is,” she answered 
gently. “ I know him to be everything that is honor- 
able and clever in man or gentleman.” 

He is all that and more,” returned Cyril, with 
sudden abandon. “ He is honorable as few men are 
honorable, he is absolutely without reproach, he is 
loyal and true as steel.” 

‘‘ That is nothing, Cyril,” she answered gravely. 

Nothing ! ” 

“ I mean all these fine, noble qualities cannot 
make me want to marry him — cannot make me love 
him.” 

You are a strange woman, Barbara.” 

“ Oh, no, I ’m not. Every woman is the same. 
Love is not made, does not come to order. It is 
very often a misfit.” 

“You are frivolous. Listen. Barbara, if I were 
to tell you that Antony Trent had done a great, self- 
abnegatory action, would that make you love him 
the sooner?” 

“ I should not believe it — of Antony Trent.” 

“ You shall believe it ! 1 will make you believe 

it ! ” He had risen and moved a step away from 
her. “ What do you know of this strong, silent man?” 
he proceeded hotly. “What do you know of his 
struggles and hopes, his obstacles and triumphs, of 


224 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


the fiendish hours he has met alone, face to face, 
and conquered? What do you know of Antony 
Trent ? What do you know of anybody ? ” 

She looked up at him in speechless unrecognition. 

“ I want to tell you a story,” he resumed with 
forced calm. “ Will you listen ? ” 

Oh, — wait.” 

He leaned in alarm toward her. “What is it?” 
he murmured quickly. 

“ Nothing,” she said with a little shivering laugh. 
“Only, one of those queer shudders went over me. 
They say, when it happens, that some one is walking 
over your grave.” 

“You are cold, child. Let me get something to 
put around you.” 

“No. Go on. You were going to tell me a 
story.” 

He turned and looked uncertainly about him. “I 
will sit here,” he said, seating himself on a wicker 
chair in the full light of the moon. From, her 
shadowy corner she watched the transfiguring veil 
fall upon his bowed head and silent figure as he sat, 
hatless, his strong white hands clenched upon his 
knees. He drew a deep, hard breath before he 
spoke, though the words came quietly enough. 

“ It is about Antony,” he began, “ about Antony 
and myself. It is a long story. Are you listening, 
Barbara ? ” 

“lam listening, Cyril.” 

“ We were two brothers, bred in poverty and high- 
thinking. I was very happy in those days, but 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


225 


Antony was not. It used to trouble me that Antony 
was unhappy. It was the poverty. He wanted 
things, — advantages, comforts, knowledge, travel. I 
did not want anything. I was quite stupid, but 
very happy. Our father — did you ever hear of our 
father ? — he was a strange, unpractical man, I be- 
lieve, but I did not think so. Antony did. He used 
to talk sometimes for hours to Antony. It seemed 
to me then that he was always trying to convince him 
of the truth of something ; but when he had finished 
Antony used to laugh or go off without a word. 
They did not understand each other. It was quite 
different with father and me. We often sat together 
on the step and said no word, until, of a sudden, we 
would both look up and smile at each other.’’ 

He seemed to lose the thread of his thought, and 
Barbara sat moveless. 

“ Well,” he continued after a moment, “ my 
father died and left us in poverty. Antony was 
seventeen. He had been assisting father in the 
printing-office, but on the day of his burial he went 
out and got the promise of a position from Adam 
Greathouse. The position came a few days later. 
That was the beginning of his life-work. He toiled 
like a dog, from morning till evening, went to bed, 
got up, went to work. He never spoke of it. He 
just went on, earning a pittance and giving me half. 
And I — I took it. I never questioned ; I thought 
it only right and natural that Antony should work for 
me.” 

You were only a child,” protested Barbara. 

15 


226 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ I was eleven at first. At sixteen I was still 
going to school, still taking from Antony, with no 
thought, no care for the future. I had my dream — 
until Antony spoke. Then everything was changed 
for me.” 

“What was your dream, Cyril?” 

“ It is foolish to speak of it now. I thought — I 
might some day be — a poet.” 

“ You could have been,” she cried despairingly. 
“What prevented you?” 

“ Antony showed me the folly of it. I could not 
afford to wait.” 

“It was cruel — short-sighted.” 

“ Oh, no, it was right. Probably it — the poetry — 
would not have amounted to much. Antony is not 
short-sighted. He understood. Nor was he cruel. 
He knew what would be kindest — in the long run. 
He did not force me into harness. He offered to 
help me toward college. He who had longed for 
education and culture all his life, and had never found 
it, with his small salary of which he was saving every 
dime which necessity did not demand — he sent me 
to college. And he himself went on drudging. He 
had no vices, no pleasures. He could not afford 
them. He has his reward to-day, of course. It was 
inevitable. Adam Greathouse considers him a genius. 
He has made him his secretary and representative — 
that means a great deal in the financial world. 

And I continued to go to college. I held my 
own, but a week before graduation had not settled 
upon any decisive plan until Bradbury Marvin, one 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


227 


of my classmates, asked me to take a position in his 
father’s business house. I accepted at once. I knew 
Antony would approve, would consider it a strong, 
sensible move. Besides, I had a great ambition in 
those days. I have never spoken of it to any one.” 

“Tell it to me, Cyril,” she begged gently. 

“ Oh, you,” he laughed unsteadily. “ Why should 
I tell it to you ? Would you not smile to hear that I, 
Cyril Trent, half dependent on my brother’s bounty, 
dreamed of some day founding a home, a school- 
home for poor, ambitious boys ; of finding, perhaps, 
a hungry genius in the toils and mud and grime 
and ache of fortune, and lifting him into light and air; 
of adding my quota toward making somebody 
happy, happy ! Oh, if the rich only knew, if the rich 
only knew ! Well, I accepted the offer eagerly ; and 
thus it was that I, the country lad, came into the 
strange city. 

“ I said to myself, I will live simply, as I have 
always lived. I will work heart and soul for Brad- 
bury — some day I shall have acquired something. 
I lived simply. It was no hardship ; I knew no dif- 
ferent. It was healthy. I did not know how to spend 
money ; I had never had any to spend. I had lived 
far from the bustle of the day in my lonely, country 
boyhood and in my student-life. Books, dreams, 
aspirations, — these were the sum-total of my men- 
tality. I knew there was misery, but of vice I 
knew little and thought less. To see behind every 
beautiful face the skull, — or the devil, — at the heart 
of every rose the worm — I could not dwell upon 


228 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


such thoughts. Oh the old purity of thought, the 
old purity of hope ! ” He raised his face in pale 
rhapsody, as though looking at some lost, beautiful, 
dead thing. He continued with dry, fevered lips : 

‘‘ I started out to live up to the best in me, but at 
the first corner I met a woman who awoke the sleep- 
ing devil in me, — and I was lost.” His voice died 
into husky indistinctness. Barbara sat moveless. 

‘‘Turn your eyes away, Barbara — I cannot bear 
to have them on me. I cannot speak while you look 
at me so. Will you not look away? How obstinate 
you are ! Well, you won’t look long. 

“ This woman — I met her one night. I was visit- 
ing a former classmate ; he was laid up in his bed at 
his hotel and had sent for me to sit with him. I had 
just come out of his room when, in the corridor, I 
saw a girl — a slight thing — lean against a column 
as if in great pain. I went up to her, asked if I could 
assist her. She looked at me as though surprised, 
and then asked me to help her to her room. I did 
so gladly. She was pretty ; her eyes — There 
was something of sad in her face ; but when she 
smiled — I could not brush her smile from my 
memory. It drew me, drew me, and I knew nothing 
else. I came the next day and the next. I spoke 
to her, as I spoke to every one who showed in- 
terest ; sometimes she would look at me in won- 
der, as though I were a curious thing, something she 
did not understand. But she always begged me to 
go on, — and I went on. I was sorry for her: she 
was alone in the world, lonely and lovely. She 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


229 


became everything to me. She blotted out my 
heaven — she was my heaven. She drew me, drew 
me. Nothing was but her. I loved her — as mad- 
men love. She laughed at me — mocked — repelled 
— and in repelling drew me closer. I begged, im- 
plored, and finally — she gave in, and — we were 
married.” 

She regarded him bravely, although her face had 
blanched piteously. 

“ It was the only way I knew,” he continued dully; 
but Antony told me — afterward — that I had been 
a fool. Most men would have told me the same 
thing. It was the only way I knew.” He looked 
past her, at his vanished youth, his buried dream. 

For five weeks I lived in my fool’s paradise,” he 
went on painfully. “ And then — one day — I dis- 
covered — I discovered that she was not worthy, had 
never been worthy — the marriage-tie.” A great 
storm of color swept to and from his pallid face. 

She mocked at my horror, my misery, called me 
Sir Galahad, sneered at my ^ innocence ’ of the world 
and its ways ; she was quite dead to honor. She 
tossed me a bill, I do not know for what — jewels, 

I think — for twenty-five hundred dollars. It must 
be paid that day, she said. And then I learned that 
I had given her all, that I was bankrupt — ruined. 
Suit would be commenced, she said, against her that 
day, against Cyril Trent’s wife. I did not know 
where to turn ; but for Antony’s sake — for his 
honorable name’s sake — this must not be. I went 
from her, looking at life through bloodshot eyes. 


230 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


Bradbury was away, there was no one else, I had no 
close friend — but Antony — and Antony must not 
know. Bradbury was away — he was the only other 
one. If he had known he would have lent it on the 
instant. And then I said to myself : ‘ That is it — I 
will borrow it from Bradbury, nevertheless.’ I was 
nominally head of the firm in his absence — I had 
won their entire confidence — I was the only one 
empowered to sign the firm’s checks — I do not 
know how I can go on — I really do not know.” 
He got up, striding up and down like a caged animal 
in dire plight. But Barbara sat moveless, she spoke 
no word. 

“I said to myself, this thing must be paid,” he 
proceeded hoarsely, ‘‘and before to-night. It will be 
a loan — when Bradbury comes home I will explain 

— he will understand. And so — listen — do you 
hear? — and so — I drew a check m the Jlrm's name 
for twenty-five hundred dollars," 

She made a moaning sound at last, bowing her 
head in her arm as it lay across the back of the 
settee. 

“ I went out to the bank and had it cashed,” he 
dashed on in wild ruthlessness. “ I sent the money 
to her creditors. An hour later he, Bradbury, came 
unexpectedly into the office. My appearance must 
have startled him, for he shut and locked the door, 
and asked me what was the trouble. I told him all 

— all. Then I lost my friend.” 

He buried his face in his trembling hands. Only 
after many seconds could he go on. “ He had loved 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


231 

me,” he rejoined wearily ; “ he could not understand 
at first. And then he said that she — the girl ■— was 
well-known about town — was — It is all too un- 
speakable, Barbara, but I have to tell it. After 
a while he said that I had better send for Antony — 
he said I must get out of it — Besides, there was the 
money to be repaid, — the money I had taken with- 
out right. He was the guardian of his father’s in- 
terests — he was firm in his kindness — he said I 
must send for Antony — or pay the penalty of expos- 
ure. I think I was quite dead by that time — quite 
dead. All that had made life good to me, my eager 
youth, my beckoning hope, my only friend, — all had 
gone in the passage of a day. There was nothing left 
to live for. I stood upon a breath of life with nothing 
between me and death but my brother Antony. 
Under Bradbury’s importuning, I sent for him. 

He came. Bradbury told him everything. I 
had nothing to say, nothing to ask, nothing to 
offer. It was all one to me now, — except the 
misery for Antony. He listened carefully, sat and 
thought, asked the address of — her, and went off. 
Hours afterward he came back with some papers. 
He did not speak, did not upbraid ; he only walked 
the floor. Toward morning he sat down and sub- 
scribed to the terms to which she had agreed for my 
release. She would agree to a legal separation, with- 
out demur, on the receipt of twelve thousand dollars. 
His, Antony’s little fortune was tied up, with the 
exception of six thousand dollars which were avail- 
able. By some means of persuasion she had con- 


232 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


sented to take this, and the remainder in monthly 
instalments of four hundred dollars. Besides, there 
was the twenty-five hundred to be repaid. He had 
just begun to live, to allow himself the little club 
indulgences and mental expansions he had always 
craved, and which an assured position secures. He 
gave it all up — without question — everything — you 
saw how he was bound, one day, in the office — 
It is almost paid — another month — He gave ail 
up, — the money which had promised so much to 
him — which had cost the strength of all his powers 
to acquire — to save me — his fool brother — the 
felon — the divorced husband of a light woman.” 

The melody of the night fell about them. He had 
lashed both her and himself into insensibility. The 
moments flew. He arose stiffly and picked up his 
hat from the bench. 

“ I wanted to die — ” he went on in rasping harsh- 
ness, as an automaton speaks, because it must, — 
“ but Antony would not let me. He told me to live. 
Dying, he said, might re-create the scandal. He 
bound me to nothing but total, silent acceptance, and 
a quiet, unambitious existence under his surveillance. 
He never mocked, never chided, never recalled the 
past. He had taken it from me, he said, and made 
it his own. He said dying would not help him. So 
I went on living — as best I could. I think there 
must be something lacking in me. Do you know, 
sometimes I have forgotten all about it ; sometimes 
I have been happy, but with a happiness that few can 
know? Can you understand that? Often I have 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


233 


awakened from a peaceful sleep and thought I was the 
same boy I had been in the long ago — and then I 
thought — I might take your hand in mine — but O 
God, Barbara, Barbara, it cannot be undone ! — and 
so, good-night.” 

She did not answer. He stood a moment waiting. 
Then he turned and went quietly down the steps. 

Oh the iron and torture of life ! Oh the burden 
of the past, the irreclaimable, irreparable light and 
hope ! Barbara moaned and shuddered in her heavy 
misery. Her limbs seemed weighted, she could not 
raise her head. And then, she began to fret, as a 
child frets, as though something hurt or annoyed her 
and could not be removed ; but no thought came to 
ease her, and the fretting turned again to deep, tear- 
less moaning. Finally this, too, ceased, and she sat 
cold and still. 

Something had just died. A meteor had flashed 
across her skies, and that was all. The old beautiful 
illusion — where was it? If only she could blot out 
his words, still believe him the man she had thought 
him ! Only she could not. Yet quick the word 
hypocrite ” sprang like a blow to her recollection, and 
she raised her head in quick, superb loyalty and defi- 
ance. She flung the word the lie. He had practiced 
no hypocrisy, pretended to nothing which he had not 
been. She could see it all, — the siren and the 
strange, Puritan dreamer with his god’s face and 
figure ; the woman’s vanity ; the wonder of the 
adventuress over the purity of a man in an age when 
purity and innocence, even in a woman, are symbolic 


234 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


of ignorance and prudery. There had been a mo- 
ment of delirium, a moment of weakness — he had 
not been armored — one unconscious step aside and 
its consequent second — the devil’s scoring of his 
humanity — the curse of flesh — and then — his own 
pure self again. Pure? Are only children pure? 
Do purity of thought and motive count for nothing? 
He had fallen, yes. But he had not seen the pitfall, 
— and he had not fallen again. Her heart swelled 
proudly in her justification of him. 

Was love playing the juggler with her? Was it 
she alone who would judge him so? Nay, surely 
there were others. Surely the two boys up there in his 
cabin home, the people of Factory Lane, the police- 
man on his beat, yes, and even Adam Greathouse 
and his kind — surely they would endure no reviling 
of his loved name. Some day she would thank 
Antony Trent for having saved him for them. 

Antony Trent ! Antony Trent against his brother 
Cyril — the fallen angel against the strong, honor- 
able man — She could see the world smile — the 
world, if it knew. Well, let it smile. The world’s 
estimate as to who was the worthier of the two did 
not alter the fact that she loved the other. Love, as 
she had said, is not made to order. That is the glory 
of it — the divine pity of it — it will love whom it 
will, it is not a respecter of persons. 

She was there to defend and comfort him. That 
was what love was for — sometimes. Not only for the 
heyday of strength and joy, but, in the hour of 
bitterness and despair, to stand shoulder to shoulder, 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


235 


indomitable, self-sufficing, challenging scorn and 
sneer and misunderstanding, strong as death, and 
as unconquerable. 

The whistle of the incoming midnight train shrilled 
eerily through the night. She sat alert, a defiant, 
proud-faced woman. 


236 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

HERE was a slight chill in the atmosphere the 



X next morning, and as Barbara stood at the 
door with Robert, watching the red and yellow leaves 
rustle down and drift along the ground in the sough- 
ing wind, she advised him to put on an overcoat. 
“ Winter is coming,” she observed casually, looking 
at the windy lights in the sky. 

“ Not for two good months yet,” affirmed Robert, 
pulling his hat more firmly over his eyes, and looking 
thoughtfully out with her. There was an awkward 
quietude in his face and bearing which Barbara re- 
garded as the natural embarrassment of a man in the 
first stages of an uncertain, tacit, moral resolution, 
desirous of evading remark and detection. “ Our 
fall does not end till December, when we begin to 
put on overcoats, and, once in a while, take an um- 
brella out for a drenching. This wind will die out 
toward evening. What are you going to do with 
yourself to-day ? ” The question was put carelessly, 
with no further purpose than that of showing a kindly 
interest. He had felt a note of sternness in her first 
word of greeting the night before ; and afterward, in 
the full light, the proud remoteness in her bearing, 
in the steeled look of her eyes and still, pale face. 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


237 


had only increased the impression. He saw that the 
hours of the night had brought her no nearer her 
usual inspiring self. 

“ I have nothing in particular in view for to-day,” 
she answered slowly, as though considering, still look- 
ing past him at the gate beyond. “ Oh, yes, late this 
afternoon Helen Greathouse and I are going up to 
Cyril Trent’s.” 

Cyril Trent’s?” 

“ He gives a lecture to some of the students every 
Monday afternoon, you know.” 

I have heard of it. Then you have met Cyril 
Trent?” 

She regarded him in surprise ; but the next sec- 
ond, the remembrance of his state on a certain bitter 
day explained his apparent lapse of memory. “ Oh, 
yes,” she answered quietly. 

‘^Like him?” There was nothing but simple cu- 
riosity in his tone, an evident desire to know her 
opinion of him ; but a dark flood of color swept into 
her pallid cheek at his question. 

“ He is a close friend of mine,” she returned 
sharply. 

‘ ‘ I only wanted to know,” said Robert, in quick 
apology. I had forgotten about your acquaintance 
with him. I am glad if you have found a friend in 
him or in any one.” 

Thank you,” she answered with a wintry smile. 

He turned more squarely toward her, as though to 
shut off any stranger ear. My dear,” he said, in 
swift solicitude, ‘‘ I have noticed that you are not 


238 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


yourself. Has anything happened to disturb you 
during my absence ? I don’t want to intrude into 
your privacy — but if I can help you in any way — ” 

Her eyebrows went up in quick questioning. I 
don’t know what you can mean, Robert,” she de- 
clared lightly. “ It has been a singularly quiet 
week.” 

“Well. All right, then. Don’t cherish any bo- 
gies if you think I can shoot them for you.” He 
made a move to go. “ By the way,” he hesitated, 
turning back as though struggling with an embarrass- 
ing problem, “ why not bring Cyril Trent home with 
you to dinner to-night? Do you think he would 
come? ” 

“ I can’t say. I can ask him if you wish,” she 
vouchsafed in icy carelessness. 

“ Do. Well, so long.” 

He went off with a wave of the hand from the 
gate, and Barbara turned back and shut the door. 

Just as she did so, the rushing metallic ring of the 
telephone sounded, and she went to answer it. 

“Is that Gerrish’s? ” 

“ Yes. Good-morning, Helen.” 

“ Oh, Barbara, we were going up to Cyril Trent’s 
this afternoon, weren’t we?” 

“Well?” 

“ I can’t go. I ’m going to the city. You know 
my cousins, the Russell Wallaces? Well, they have 
sent for me to go with them to the Charity Ball to- 
night. Do you mind ? ” 

“ Not at all. Have a good time.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


239 


‘‘Thanks. I’ll have loads to tell when I get 
home. I may stay a week. Run down and see 
papa once in a while, will you ? ” 

“With pleasure.” 

“Good-bye, you dear motherly old soul.” 

“Good-bye, chicken.” 

She hung up the receiver and stood looking 
thoughtfully before her. She had not provided 
against the unforeseen, but there was no question of 
her not going. To disappoint him, to stay away to- 
day, would be quite outside her reckoning. She had 
an impression to undo, restitution to make through 
her simple going. She felt herself quite emotion- 
less and calm. It was a sort of brazen calm, akin to 
that which accused criminals, guiltless or not, often 
unconsciously assume. The unspoken accusation 
of the world embraced her as well as himself. A 
species of bravado born of the knowledge of 
the strength of her imagined opponents’ arguments, 
and of the contempt with which she knew her 
own stand would have been viewed, steeled her to 
imperviousness. 

As the hour of her going to the cabin approached, 
the bravado developed into feverish recklessness. 
She chose her gown with a conscious passion of co- 
quetry. As she fastened a red rose in her bosom, 
she regarded herself with excited pleasure. A hard, 
reckless little laugh escaped her at sight of her bril- 
liant eyes and wildly flushed cheeks ; the knowledge 
that she was looking well added another spoke of 
power to her already moving wheel of rebellion. 


240 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


Coming out of the hall door she saw Mrs. Black 
moving among the flower-beds with shears and gar- 
den basket. A novel desire to be seen, admired, 
moved her for the moment ; but one look into the 
woman’s simple, kindly face turned the little impulse 
of vanity into a flood of repellent thought. 

She walked on swift-footed, blind to every influence 
but the fixed one of the night’s revelations. “ Dear 
me,” she thought, what a good woman Mrs. Black 
is. How good all the untempted people of the 
world are ! ” A cynical, sneering smile settled about 
the corners of her mouth. The color blazed mu- 
tinously in her face, and she stepped over the dusty 
road and across the meadow as though pursued by 
countless opposing forces striving to draw her back 
from a madness. Suddenly she paused, and laughed 
in sad tremulousness ; the hard light died from her 
eyes and mouth as though a peaceful hand had been 
laid upon her throbbing temples. How foolish I 
am ! ” she thought. Again he seemed to stand upon 
the high ideal plane where she had placed him before 
she knew, again only the giant of nobility, the simple 
Lover of Mankind stood out, chiding her, hushing 
her. As she stepped into the narrow footpath lead- 
ing up to the woods, ail the bravado and misery fell 
from her. Let him who is without sin — ” came 
the dim thought as she walked steadily on toward 
him. 

“Are you going up to Cyril Trent’s too. Miss 
Gerrish?” 

She started at the unexpected voice, and looked 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


241 


up to a school-girl who stood just above her in the 
path, her books on her arm. She had met her 
several times at the Lauries’, and she smiled gladly at 
her now. 

‘‘ Because if you are,’^ continued the girl shyly, 

I will walk with you, if you don’t mind.” 

‘‘That will be very pleasant, Anita.” 

“ Why,” laughed the young girl surprisedly, con- 
tinuing on with her, “you said that just like Cyril 
Trent himself.” 

“Did I? How is that?” 

Thus encouraged, the little garrulous maid talked 
on of Cyril Trent and his hold on the boys and girls 
of the town, and Barbara listened with gentle pleas- 
ure j and presently they had reached the great oak 
just before the climbing pathway leading to the bun- 
galow. The windows were open, and the sound 
of a man’s voice reached them indistinctly. Three 
steps to mount, a pace to make, and they stood 
directly within the broad, shallow room which served 
both as lecture-hall and living-room. 

It was late, and Barbara took a seat near the door 
behind the broad back of a lad she recognized as 
George, his ^iwA^vH-protege. For a moment, all 
around her was a blur, and then the forms of the 
auditors emerged, — boy and girl students, several 
women, two or three veterans, Billings the cripple- 
poet, two professors from the Academy, and a trio 
of young fellows whom she did not know. 

She heard Cyril’s voice, but did not look toward 
him. The Martian mountains, the planet’s spots and 
16 


242 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


satellites, the theories of its changing phases, held no 
interest for her. She heard words which bore no 
meaning. The continuous croaking of frogs in the 
adjacent brook chimed in like a note of passing 
summer ; a distant wagon creaked down the hill and 
passed into silence ; some one shuffled a paper or 
shifted in his seat ; the earnest, musical voice spoke 
on. 

Upon the opposite wall was a pictured face which 
dimly recalled the speaker — the dreamy counte- 
nance of one who, with his flowing blond beard, 
suggested a Norse god. The gentle eyes seemed to 
smile into hers, and she looked away with a stir of 
pain. “ His father,” she thought in unquestioning 
recognition. Quite close to her, facing the other, 
was the fine, dark head of Antony Trent, cold, strong, 
austere, seeming to challenge the dreamy effluence 
of his vis-a-vis. There was nothing else upon the 
walls, only these two heads, — the idealist and the 
materialist demanding comparison. 

For a long time Barbara gazed into Antony Trent’s 
pictured face. “ It is good discipline,” she thought 
with a hard-drawn breath ; and then, with an uncon- 
trollable start of dread, she saw, as she looked 
toward the doorway, that Antony Trent himself 
stood there, half-turned to the room, his riding-whip 
and hat in his hand. 

He appeared not to see her. He was gazing 
without, but there was no abstraction in his gaze ; his 
very shoulders wore an expectant alertness. 

A few minutes after her discovery of his presence, 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


243 

there was a buzz and murmur, a rising and moving, the 
sound of pleasant greetings, the interchange of com- 
ment, a movement toward the door. Barbara had 
risen also. As the little gathering met and wandered 
off sociably, Trent stepped within and came toward her. 
At the same moment she noticed Cyril standing in 
the doorway in leave-taking with his quondam school- 
mistress, Miss Tynan, whose dim, near-sighted eyes 
looked up into his face with old-fashioned pride and 
approval. 

Between two fires, Barbara was on guard in an 
instant. 

You are alone,” said Antony, his teeth showing 
in a faint, conventional smile between his somewhat 
pale lips. 

“ Miss Greathouse could not come ; she has gone 
to the city.” 

‘‘ Indeed ? — I thought she would be with you. 
Then my presence here may be an intrusion ; but 
I come as a substitute. Robert, your brother, 
came into my office to tell me that he had intended 
driving up here in the surrey and bringing you two 
— and Cyril — home to dine. But he was detained, 
and asked me to come in his stead. Will the sub- 
stitution annoy you .? ” 

‘‘Why should it?” she returned with an odd 
flutter about the heart. “ I see your brother is dis- 
engaged now, and — ” 

She paused forgetfully, her dark eyes looking 
toward Cyril as he approached with slow diffi- 
dence. 


244 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


“ Helen could not come,” she explained, her voice 
ringing unfamiliarly in her own ears. “ So I have 
come alone to drink tea with you.” 

His face was quite gray and harassed, although 
his dull eyes attempted to smile. “You are very 
kind,” he said. “I did not hope to see you.” 

“ Why not ? ” she responded with a trembling 
little laugh. “ Shall we have it now ? And then — 
Robert has sent your brother with the trap — he 
wants you to come to dine with us.” 

“ Robert — wants — me — ” he repeated wearily, 
passing his hand over his brow. “ I don’t under- 
stand. I thought — ” 

“There is nothing to understand,” she interrupted, 
controlling a desire to touch him, to take his hand in 
reassurance, “ except that we want you. Is n’t that 
all, Mr. Trent?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ Will you come? ” persuaded Barbara steadily. 

He raised his head. His brow was crimson, his 
eyes looked in strong misery into hers. “ I thank 
you,” he said hoarsely, “but — ” 

She suddenly stamped her foot. “ You must,” 
she commanded. Both men looked with quickened 
pulses at the young woman with her raised head 
and imperious face. Then she smiled with unex- 
pected sweetness. “ You must come,” she added, 
“ because I want you to come. Is n’t that enough ? 
And please, won’t you make the tea now? ” 

He turned from her, walking to the door leading 
into the room beyond. 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


245 

Barbara seated herself on the camp-stool and 
folded her gloved hands in her lap. 

'‘Do you like tea?’^ she asked, glancing up and 
away from Antony Trent, who leaned against the 
door-lintel. 

“I can’t abide the stuff,” he answered in harsh 
brusqueness. 

Barbara forgot him a moment later, and Antony 
stood as if frozen in his coigne of observation. Some- 
thing was humming in his brain ; all the hungry 
melancholy of his boyhood seemed to claim him 
again, the sense of wild longing, of being left out, of 
wanting to get into something — something which 
others had and which had always been denied him. 
His lips were pressed together in the old sullen 
taciturnity. He watched Cyril come in, pass Barbara 
a cup of the steaming beverage, and offer him, 
Antony, another. He waved him away shortly, and 
Cyril, standing in the light of the west window, made 
a pretense of drinking with her. 

The girl made a picture between them on her low 
camp-stool. She was chatting brightly, swiftly, 
smiling with easy unconcern in her convention-defy- 
ing position. Antony Trent never forgot the 
picture. 

“I don’t care to hurry you,” he said presently, 
“ but the horses must be growing restless.” 

A few minutes later they were standing outside 
among the trees in the glow of the declining sun, 
Antony beside the light surrey, smoothing the nearer 
horse with his gloved hand, Barbara a few feet from 


246 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


him looking toward Cyril, who stood talking to the 
boys, his hand upon George’s shoulder, his other arm 
imprisoned in Hank’s embrace. 

“ Good-bye,” called the lads as he went down 
toward the others. 

“ Good-bye, boys,” he sang cheerily back to 
them. 

“'Will you sit in front with me or — with Cyril?” 
Trent asked sharply as his brother came up. 

“ I enjoy being just behind the horses,” she re- 
turned, springing lightly into the front seat without 
his helping hand. 

Cyril stepped into the back. 

“ All set ? ” Antony turned with a perfunctory 
nod to his brother, as he himself mounted beside the 
girl. 

“ All set, Antony,” replied Cyril, a ghost of a 
smile playing over his haggard face as he nodded in 
return. 

Antony silently tucked the light robe about her, 
sat down, and picking up the reins, carefully turned 
the horses. 

Presently they were passing over the narrow curv- 
ing road which Barbara knew as the “ Long cut.” 
The setting sun was in her eyes, and she shaded them 
with her hand. 

“You handle the reins easily,” she remarked as 
they sped on. 

“ I am used to them,” he vouchsafed briefly 
through dry lips. And then he cleared his throat 
in an attempt to speak further ; but several minutes 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


247 


elapsed before the words came. They were ap- 
proaching the brow of the hill when the low-breathed 
utterance was accomplished. 

“ You have a question to answer.” 

She shrank from him as though he had raised his 
whip to strike her. 

“ Impossible, Mr. Trent. I — I am sorry — 
deeply sorry — but I cannot marry you,” she mur- 
mured in intense confusion. 

“ Quite sure?” The cutting words hung sus- 
pended in air as though with the whip. 

“ I am quite sure.” 

He leaned forward, seized the whip, and the quiver- 
ing thong lashed downward. There was a surprised 
spring and leap ; the infuriated horses dashed on 
toward the precipitous hill with Antony straining at 
the lines. The light vehicle swayed dangerously in 
the headlong flight. 

“Sit still,” he shouted, turning a flashing white 
face toward his companions. “ Hold on for your 
lives ! ” 

The carriage rocked violently. On sped the 
horses, spurning rock, and rut, and road in their mad 
flight. Fool ! Fool ! their mocking hoofs seemed to 
beat back, and the flying landscape echoed. Fool ! 
He had staked all for this, bartered the goal of a 
life-time for this — and lost. And now it was to be 
decided — it was all to be decided now — down 
there at the turn at the foot of the hill. The Joy of 
Life ! The Joy of Life ! He had never known it, — 
would never know it. It was here — here beside him. 


248 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


enfolded in the still woman who sat so close. And 
a sudden mad impulse took him to fling the reins 
aside, — to fling everything aside, seize her in his 
arms, clasp her close, live for a moment, — and plunge 
with her forever into oblivion. 

But before the movement could be made, there 
came a sound of snapping steel, the lines were 
wrenched from his hands, there was a blinding con- 
vulsive shock, and they were whirled like chaff to 
either side of the road. 

Antony Trent picked himself up unhurt. In the 
distance he heard the flying hoofs thundering over 
the bridge. Through a cloud of dust he saw Barbara 
come toward him, the blood dropping from a bruise 
in her forehead. 

“ You are hurt? ” he said, putting out a hand. It 
seemed to him they were in another life, and thus, 
like ghosts, approached each other. 

She shook her head ; her face was strangely still. 
“Cyril,” she muttered, her tottering feet going 
forward. 

Antony strode past her. 

They came upon him a few yards farther back. 
He lay outstretched, his eyes closed, his face up- 
turned to the sky; a faint red stream flowed from 
under his head. 

Antony bent over him. “Cyril,” he calle,d ; but 
all was still. 

He knelt beside him, laid his hand upon his 
shoulder. “ Cy,” he repeated huskily. “ Wake up. 
It’s I — it’s Antony.” 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


249 


But there came no response. 

He put his lips to his ear. “ Young-un,” he 
whispered hoarsely, “ Tony ’s talking to you. Come, 
lad, it’s all right.” 

The rushing river rippled by, winding to sea. 
Three rigid figures were silent. 

Antony laid his hand upon the calm brow, thrust 
it into the quiet bosom. He looked up into the face 
of the woman standing over them. 

‘‘ He is dead,” he said in helpless bewilderment. 

“ I love him,” she returned. 

“ But he is dead,” reiterated the bewildered 
voice. 

‘‘Yes,” she repeated strangely, as one might say, 
‘ Finis ’ — “he is dead. I love him, and he is 
dead.” 

And she knew no more, except that she turned to 
the pitying skies and trees, and said quite simply, “ I 
love him, and he is dead.” Thus she announced it 
to the world. It seemed to her that she was walking 
through a long gray vista, and that she ever turned 
to silent, gray figures that stood aside as she passed 
saying those simple, childish words. It seemed to 
her that she must go on forever repeating those 
words. She knew, dimly, that men had come run- 
ning, that the quiet form had been raised upon stal- 
wart shoulders and borne away, and she was left 
alone, looking down the long gray vista. 

By-and-by she moved on after them up the hill, 
but when she came to the brow some subjective 
influence stayed her. She sat down upon a fallen 


250 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


log and looked out. Far off stretched the glimmer- 
ing haze of the valley ; below her rushed the turbu- 
lent river, a hand’s breadth of passion breaking the 
land ; above her rose the silent majesty of the woods. 

While she sat there the great gun announced the 
sunset. The sound rose and reverberated, and lin- 
gered, and died away. In the grave evening peace 
she arose and went slowly homeward down the hill. 

In the little cabin on the height all was still. 
Man had done all he could before the last rite for 
that which had represented Cyril Trent, and the 
dreamer was left to his dreams. 

The brother alone sat near; a taper in a distant 
corner of the room shed a dim gleam upon the 
isolating silence of his face. A faint whisper came 
intermittently from the next room, but it no longer 
reached his dulled senses. Swayed presently by an 
indescribable yearning, he arose and approached the 
statuesque, outstretched figure. Perhaps some an- 
swer as to the meaning of it all, the struggle, and the 
ceaseless hunger, and this, the mysterious sphinx- 
like end, might come to him from this effigy, the life- 
less shell of this man-creature whose feet had been 
close to the clay, whose thoughts had been close to 
the stars. 

He removed the covering from the face and looked 
down at its grave, sculptured beauty. A strange awe 
of it almost overcame him. It seemed to speak up 
to him of a majesty of peace and joy too deep for a 
smile, too grand for mortal conception. “ It were a 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


251 

curious paradox of existence,” mused the man, “if, 
after all. Death were the Joy of Life.” 

“Cast thy bread upon the waters,” thought the 
scoffer, “ and it will return — to posterity — after many 
days ! ” A mist obscured his vision, and he re-cov- 
ered the luminous features. He took an uncertain 
step away, then walked out of the door into the night. 

He seemed to enter an immensity of space, a 
silence as of extinct worlds, in which he alone was 
living, breathing. 

He felt too weary to battle with nature. He seated 
himself upon the rude bench just without the door, 
leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in 
his hands. He was still guarding his charge. The 
sullen envy which had possessed him earlier in the 
day had fallen from him, and now — strange habit of 
thought ! — he felt only a dog-like, human need of 
caring for his own. 

He no longer envied Cyril — what could her love 
profit the dead? Yet, with all the miserable intui- 
tion which never failed him, he knew that he could 
gain nothing by Cyril’s death. He knew her too 
well. Even now she walked apart, remote from him, 
a woman of peace, wrapped in the same cloud of 
majesty which shrouded him who lay at rest He, 
Antony, could never reach her — it were pitiable 
folly to strive. Her shadow lover’s arms claimed her 
— this was her wedding night. Her gentle face 
seemed to look down upon him as from a great 
height, and he folded his arms upon his breast in a 
passion of renunciation. 


252 


THE JOY OF LIFE. 


So this was his life — a failure. What he might 
have attained he had flung aside, what he wanted he 
would never possess. Go, measure your success 
by this,” the dreamer had said : “ Inasmuch as you 
have loved and have been loved, you have lived — 
this alone is life.” He had made a fetich of self, and 
behold the result ! The boy ? Yes, the boy had 
loved him ; but he was gone now, and who else was 
there? A groan of defeat escaped him. He set his 
teeth over his hopelessness, his inadequacy. The 
immensity of space seemed to widen about him ; he 
put up his hand to wipe the moisture from his brow. 

The movement sent a rush of defiance through 
him. Strong nature rebelled. To be undone by 
a woman — what puerility ! Life’s gravest issues 
were not sentimental ones. In a flash of memory 
his hand sought his breast-pocket, and he drew out an 
envelope. It had been , handed him in the early 
evening, but in the first shock of his loss he had 
thrust it into his pocket unopened. His hand trem- 
bled slightly as, by the light of a match, he read the 
cramped writing of the enclosure : 

My dear Antony, — I send Morton to you as my 
substitute. Command him to the utmost. Your loss is 
all Riverton’s — a nobler soul never lived. For your 
sake, my dear boy, as well as for his, I grieve as for one 
of my own. 

Adam Greathouse. 

The match flickered out. The blood tingled and 
coursed through his veins with reviving fire. He 


THE JOY OF LIFE, 


253 


grasped the paper nervously ; his lips set in a line 
of grim resolve. The scent of the battle, the sense 
of a forgotten passion, returned to him. Nature does 
not lose a child like him so lightly. Here lay his 
power, here he could grapple and achieve. Thought 
sped away in boots of seven leagues. The piquant 
face of Helen Greathouse came before his mind. 
He looked on the vision steadily, knew, without ques- 
tion, that he could and would be true to her; ac- 
cepted her as the solution of his life. His prostrate 
soul sprang erect. 

Thus Antony Trent emerged from his short excur- 
sion into the Gardens of Paradise, where after all 
only they who “know” not — Youth and dreamers 
of dreams — may tarry ; and the man, touched with 
knowledge and sorrow, came again into the tangible 
world of Fact, and bowed once more before its an- 
cient sovereign, Mammon, called The Great. The 
gods, in their love for him, had flung him the Phil- 
osopher’s Stone, — a hope. 


THE END. 





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OTHER THINGS BEING EQUAL. 

BY EMMA WOLF. 

i2mo, 275 pages. Price, $1.00. 

It is a romance pure and simple, and has the rare merit of artistic 
unity. It commands attention by its gentle might, the legitimate method 
of romance. ... It is a relief to find an unspoiled story of pure 
sentiment, without sensationalism, mawkish sentimentality, affected 
eccentricity, or the least sign of pandering to the too popular compromise 
with immorality. — Boston Post. 

The picture given of Jewish life and feeling is very attractive ; but 
the charm of the book lies in the clever delineation of widely differing 
personalities and in its power of giving to brain-created people an almost 
living individuality. . . . The story is strong and well written, and 
holds the reader’s sympathetic interest from the first page to the last. — 
Literary Worlds Boston. 

The struggle between orthodox ideas of marriage within the racial 
lines, and the charming love story which is so complicated, is as power- 
ful an incident as anything in modern novel-writing. This is a story 
well worth Gentile reading, and every Hebrew will find not only much 
that is true, but matter of pride in it. — Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 

This is a well-told story of how the course of true love did not run 
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drawn, the interest w’ell kept up, and the lesson of Christian charity 
quite forcibly inculcated. — Public Opinion, New York. 

The lesson derived from this story is, that other things being equal, — 
that is, every other consideration being favorable, — a Jewish girl may 
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insuperable barrier to their union. . . . The book presents a beautiful 
picture of the peace, the pure morality, and the domestic tranquillity 
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homes. — Home Journal, New York. 

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 

A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers, 

Cor Wabash Avk. and Madison St., Chicago- 


GROUND ARMS! 

The Story of a Life. 

BY BERTHA VON SUTTNER. 

i2mo, 286 pages. Price, $1.00. 


This story is one of the strongest works of fiction of the present 
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her. By that thing she is verily possessed ; it has made of her a seer. 

. . . The bare, bald outline of “Die Waffen nieder!” (“Ground 
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destined to extend far into the — Public Opinion, New York. 


Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 

A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers, 

Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago. 







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